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psychedelic-ink · 7 months

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𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊.

DAY ELEVEN OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: cyberpunk au + fallen angel au + “i will keep hurting. i will keep killing. anything to protect you.”

pairing: fallen angel!joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, romance

summary: you and tess go in to dismantle a cult, neither of you were expecting to find a rugged fallen angel being experimented on.

word count: 5.2k

warnings: possessive!joel, piv, creampie, breeding kink, dirty talk, violence

a/n: this was heavily inspired by miyazaki's on your mark music video! also we're almost add the end babes, only one more to go, isn't that exciting!

Ash sticks to your skin. The air is warm and damp, the scent of it churning your stomach and making you want to vomit. You observe the city as the aircraft inch closer to a particularly fancy and tall building. Purple and blue neons bleed into the night sky, blurring the sight of the stars. Both you and Tess are standing at the edge of the opening, ready to make the jump down below. You look at her and she nods with a fleeting smile.

“Let’s get these fuckers,” she says, her voice modulated as it echoes in your earpiece. “See you on the other side.”

She extends a fist and with your heart still beating madly in your chest, you bump it. Without speaking, she counts down, one finger going down at a time. Your gaze flits between the building and her hand, sweat building at your temples and sliding down your spine. You’ve heard of this place before. A religious cult famous for abducting people and in some extreme cases experimenting on them if they refused to follow the leader’s guidance.

The last finger goes down and you both jump in unison.

Your visor comes down, blocking the vicious wind from cutting your skin. Tess is slightly ahead of you, her helmet also fully materializing around her skull, brunette hair fluttering at her neck. The mission was simple. Go in and arrest who you can find, shoot those who resist.

The two of you touch down on the rooftop of the target building and quickly pull out your weapons. Tess leads the way as you both enter the building through a concealed access point. The interior pulses with a neon-laden atmosphere, where every corner is bathed in vibrant, shifting hues. Holographic information displays punctuate the surroundings, casting an ever-changing cascade of colors across the sleek, polished surfaces.

You and Tess navigate through the dimly lit corridors, guided by the faint hum of machinery and the eerie whispers of cult members echoing through the halls. The air is thick with tension, and every step feels like a potential trap. It almost feels like a labyrinth with the way the halls constantly turn and twist, you faintly hear Tess cursing from underneath her visor. You share her sentiment.

Moving deeper into the building, you finally encounter the cult's followers. They wear a strange blend of traditional robes and cybernetic enhancements, their faces obscured by eerie masks that display holographic symbols and patterns.

The confrontation escalates quickly. They don’t even have any weapons on them yet they jump you, before you can start shooting one of them gets the better of you and knocks you to the floor. Tess is there in an instant, a laser blade to the throat is all it takes for the person to go limp on top of you.

The room erupts in chaos but it doesn’t mean much to either you or Tess. This wasn’t your first mission together, and the two of you had adapted a fighting style that complimented each other’s strengths. The deafening blasts of energy illuminate the room with dazzling bursts of color. Bodies fall, and the cult's resistance begins to crumble.

You press on, determined to reach the heart of this twisted cult. Along the way, you discover hidden chambers filled with bizarre experiments and technology. You take a mental note to come back later on and investigate. The air is thick with the smell of chemicals and the unsettling hum of machinery. Tess makes a sharp turn and you follow, entering a dim room. More cult members attack you, they look like scientists, they fall just as easily as the rest.

“What the hell is this place?” Tess mutters, walking ahead and looking around. A blue hue coats the entirety of the room, the sound of liquids making up for most of the background noise.

You notice a table right in the middle and without a second thought you head towards it, ignoring Tess’s warnings to be careful. Something draws you to it. To him. Your pulse quickens as you notice a man lying on top of the metal surface, eyes closed, seemingly sleeping. His chest is bare, the lower half of his body covered with a thin, dark pair of sweatpants.

He’s beautiful. Rugged features scorned with cuts and bruises, but still stunning. His hair is a mess, lips chapped. He’s barely breathing, a sudden worry surrounds your heart, turns your stomach sour.

“Hey, check it out,” Tess says, walking around the table. Her hand moves over a lifeless wing, feathered and dark as night. You hold your breath, eyes going wide. “Do you think these are real?”

You don’t touch the wings, feeling like it might be disrespectful to the handsome man. You eye them warily and think about all the things these maniacs must’ve done to him. “They look real to me,” you murmur. “What should we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we bring him with us surely the government will experiment on him too,” you point out. “He’s been through enough.”

Tess drops the wing and raises an eyebrow, “You in love with him or something?” she shakes her head. “We really need to find you some good dick.”

“That’s not what this is,” you hiss, cheeks burning up. “You know it’s not right. He can stay at my place.”

“And you think they won’t come looking for him?”

“They can’t look for something they don’t know that exists.”

Tess contemplates your words for a moment and you worry this might be where she draws the line. Her kind eyes flit between you and the half-naked man, then her shoulders drop, yielding, she lifts her hands.

“Fine, let’s get this hunk of meat out of here.”

However, neither you nor Tess had calculated how heavy he would be.

“Holy fuck, how much does he weigh?” Tess groans, holding him by the ankles. You had your hands tucked under his armpits, barely keeping him from dropping to the steel ground.

“Maybe the wings add to it,” you answer, short of breath. Using the strength from your knees, you jerk him up so your arms can get a better grip. Sweat beads at your temples and slides down your cheeks. “Fuck—”

“He’s gonna suck your fridge dry,” Tess huffs. “All the gadgets in the world and not one to carry a heavy. . . what is he? A damn bird?” she shook her head. “I don’t think I wanna know.”

“If you could shut up for two seconds,” you say, gasping for air. “This might be easier. Besides, we’re at the door.”

“Oh fuck, we actually are.”

Tess manages to kick it open and you both peer down the rooftop, you hold on to the unconscious man tighter, scared he might fall.

“What now?” you shout from over the wind.

“Now,” Tess says, her gaze meeting yours, she flashes you a smirk. “We jump.”

Despite the multiple rules you’ve broken by taking in Joel—a fallen angel he’d explained when he woke up, much to your disbelief— to your home a week ago, your mornings start surprisingly calm. You have a small apartment and as you head to the kitchen, you watch the trickles of the morning light warming the floors. You enjoy these silent hours in the city. No bright neon light burning your eyes, no constant buzz of huge billboards humming in your ears; just the sun, the soft sound of birds chirping and soft wind carrying notes of clattering dishes.

You fill the kettle with water and place it on the stove, turning the flame on to let it slowly come to a boil. While waiting, you reach for your favorite coffee mug, the one with a chip on the handle that you can't bear to replace. As you retrieve the mocha pot from the cabinet, you notice a slight, fleeting shadow out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head to see Joel standing in the doorway, his wings tucked neatly against his back. He hadn’t been able to open his wings fully yet, his wounds too deep to heal.

A sudden anger simmers in your soul. The things he must’ve endured and all for what? For a bunch of people to feel good about themselves? For the to find out how to be immortal? All of it was absolute bullshit.

You pull out another mug.

His dark eyes meet yours and you swallow, a shudder rolling down your spine, “Good morning,” you choke out, pouring some ground coffee into the mocha pot's filter basket and assembling the pot. The soothing sound of the kettle on the stove fills the room as you watch Joel walk closer, his steps nearly soundless.

“Mornin’,” he grumbles, standing right behind you. His presence frying your nerves and making your hands tremble. “What’s that?”

“Coffee,” you answer. You place it on the stove and turn on the heat. “I’m making you some too. You can try it,” then you turn, eyes going wide upon noticing just how close he is. His eyes bore into yours, observing your soul and every inch of your face. Your eyes trace the bridge of his nose and linger on his lips; so lush. The divot in the middle of his bottom lip entices you to come closer but you hold your ground. “Are you hungry?”

He nods, eyes untrusting.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I’ll make us breakfast. How are your wings feeling?”

He licks his lips, “Better.”

You nod and look towards the fridge, your lips pressed tightly together. He finally backs away, allowing you to prepare an omelet for the both of you.

Joel silently watches as you crack the eggs and mix in the basil, tomato, and cheese. He watches as you pour two cups of coffee and bring out the plates. He watches as you sit and finally turn to look at him; still standing in the kitchen, watching. . . observing.

“Come sit,” you say and pull back a second chair. “You watched me prepare it there’s no poison in it promise,” you give him a playful smile and you swear the corners of his lips twitch.

He sits and picks up his fork, you cut the omelet in half, sliding it over to his plate, “So since you never had coffee before I didn’t put any milk and sugar in it, you can taste it and if it’s too bitter I can add some.”

Joel picks up the mug, his wings slightly raising in alarm as he sniffs the hot beverage. He raises a brow, eyes meeting yours, “How do you drink yours?”

“With lots of milk.”

“I feel like that defeats the purpose,” he closes his eyes and takes a sip. He smacks his lips slowly, eyes fluttering open to give you a look. “Not bad,” he says. “I like how the taste alerts me.”

“Well,” you answer with a smile. “Don’t have too much of it or you’ll be up all night.”

“Who says I’m already not?”

You stiffen at the words, meant to be a playful quip turn real in mere seconds. Joel seems unaware of the sudden pressure forming in your shoulders, around your spine; he bites into his omelet, moaning at the taste—which adds a whole different kind of pressure. . . mostly gathered between your legs.

“Can’t you sleep?” you ask silently, looking down. “Because of. . . what they’ve done.”

Joel lowers his fork, lifting his gaze in hopes of meeting yours, he furrows his brows upon realizing your downward-looking lips and your eyes that don’t meet his.

“That’s a small part of it,” he says, the soft authority of his tone bringing your gaze back up. “I remember those moments in bits and pieces, they come and go. . . It’s the fall that still keeps me up at night. ”

“The fall from. . . heaven?”

“Yes.”

And that’s it. He continues to eat, continues to drink until all of it is wiped clean in front of him.

“Let me clean your wounds,” you say and stand up from the table. Joel hadn’t been able to fly at all since you and Tess busted him out of that hellhole. He had been reluctant to treatment but realized quickly that he needed modern medicine if he was going to get better. “I’ll be right back.”

When you come back you find him sitting on his usual stool. It was high enough so that his wings wouldn’t drag across the floor. He sits silently, eyes like those of a hawk as he watches you place the supplies on the coffee table. You start by delicately peeling off the old bandages, ensuring they don't cause any pain or pluck a feather. The only sign that he feels any discomfort is the rapid pace of his breathing

You find that you enjoy these moments of vulnerability. Some part of you doesn’t want him to go.

“Sorry,” you mumble, crumbling the old bandages and throwing them to the floor for later cleaning.

His spine straightens, “For what?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” a moment of silence stretches between you before he speaks again. “You saved me.”

“Tess did too,” you add, a small smile tugging at your lips. Those two had been butting heads as soon as Joel woke up.

“She told me on multiple occasions that she would’ve left me to rot.”

“That’s how Tess cares.”

“Humans still confuse me.”

You snort and begin cleaning the wound, he winces a bit, “We’re not all bad.”

You’re happy to see that he’s nearly completely healed. His red, wet wounds from before now a tender pink. Your eyes move up to his neck. You’ve always stared at his neck since the very beginning. It reminds you of the columns of old temples that now lay in ruin thanks to the new world. His sun-kissed skin is a temptation, your lips tingling with the need to feel bare skin, wondering if it’s as warm as you thought.

“I don’t think I should bandage up the wounds anymore, they should breathe,” you murmur, your voice coming out hoarser than you thought. “But still, you need to be careful.”

Joel doesn’t say a word but his wings twitch as if they can sense your sinful thoughts. Maybe they do. You have no idea how angel powers work, or if he has any.

He’ll leave soon, you remind yourself. You’ll be alone again.

You don’t know what it is that guides your hand, but you realize in shock that your fingers start to dance along the exposed skin of his nape. Indeed it is as warm as you thought. You feel the way muscles tense under your touch, hear his heavy breathing.

Reality comes crashing in and you pull away with a sudden flinch, an apology ready at your lips—

He’s fast. Inhumanly so. Joel takes a hold of your wrist and pulls you to his lap, you fall sideways with a sharp yelp. The angel doesn’t say a word and tugs your head back, exposing your neck to him. You shudder at the touch of his lips. Whimper at the way he runs his nose down your collarbone.

“I can smell the arousal on your skin,” he drawls and tastes your skin with the flat of his tongue. “I can taste it too. Such a sinful little thing.”

“I—I’m—” You’re what? Sorry? You don’t feel sorry.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You don’t have to. . .”

Joel snorts, “I know I don’t have to. I want to,” he answers, he grips at your shirt and tugs you down while grinding up, the heft of his cock rubs against the swell of your ass. You both groan at the contact. “You feel that? You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”

Your heart leaping, you guide his hand to the waistband of your sweatpants. His eyes flashing with desire, he slips his fingers under the fabric, you shudder at the drag of his fingers between your folds. Joel burrows his face into the crook of your neck, his chest rattling with a growl.

“So wet,” he musters, the pads of his fingers stroking your throbbing clit.

“Now you know what you do to me.”

His wings suddenly stretch out from one side to the other, making him look even larger if possible. Your eyes go wide, lips parting with a soft gasp. You imagine if you stare at them long enough you could see stars.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he breathes, nostrils flaring. He pulls his fingers out and holds your waist in an iron grip. You whimper at the loss. “You don’t know me. This ain’t a game.”

“That’s right I don’t,” you answer. “I only know what I feel. And what I feel, Joel, is something I’ve never felt before. Something that both excites me and makes me want to run and hide because soon enough, I’m going to have to deal with it all on my own. You’ll be gone and I’ll be here, trying to gather the pieces of my bleeding heart.”

You think you might be imagining it, but his wings become a shield, caging you in. His gaze seems almost broken. Distraught. He mumbles something inaudible. Your brows furrow and you ask him to repeat himself.

“My wings are healed. I lied to you.”

You think you misheard him but at the same time you know you hadn’t. You blink rapidly. You don’t understand, how can be healed?

“You can fly?”

“I can, sweetheart.” he pulls you closer, your covered nipples grazing against his firm chest. Your breath catches in your throat. “I lied to you because. . . I don’t want to go.”

“Joel. . .”

“You still want me?” he asks, cutting you off, voice rueful. “I’m selfish. I get what I want and do anythin’ to make it happen. Why do you think I was cast out? Not exactly one of god’s favorites.”

You feel his breath on your skin as he speaks. His voice deep, dripping like sweet molasses. You brush your lips together and his chest heaves, his grip on you tightens, his cock throbbing.

“You’re my favorite,” you whisper.

The dam breaks.

You find yourself bent over the low coffee table, the wood creaking under your weight, your cheek smooshed against it. Joel holds your arms behind your back, rutting against your ass like some wild animal in heat. Arousal pools between your legs and you feel a fresh wave of wetness spreading within the threads of your underwear.

“Do you even know how to fuck?” you ask, hoping to gain some kind of edge despite the obvious difference in strength.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’d be surprised.”

He pulls down your sweats and the heft of his cock weighs heavily between your ass cheeks. Slick gathers between your folds. A soft whimper trembles in your throat. You can’t see him but you can imagine him looking down at you, seeing how desperate and needy you are. Joel parts your cheeks and presses forward, his cock gliding between your soaked tighs. He groan rattles in his chest and you feel the bulbous head of his cock stretching your entrance.

“Oh god. . . Joel. . .”

A choked-out sound drops from your lips as he wraps his fingers around your throat and pulls you up, it’s harder to breathe in this position, your body bent in a way so that your eyes can meet. He kisses your forehead.

“Not god,” he says, thrusting forward and filling you to the brim. Your face goes slack, brows pinching with pleasure and a hint of pain. Your moan is loud and long, your eyes still glued to his. You shudder at the intimacy. “It’s just me, sweetheart. No one else. I’m the only one that get’s to fuck this pussy—the only one that gets to see your face like that.”

You lick your lips and breathe heavily. When you nod, Joel releases you and you fall forward, bracing yourself with your elbows at the very last second.

“Look at you,” he groans, large hands stroking your cheeks. “Do you even know how soft and warm your insides are?”

He doesn’t expect an answer as he pulls back, your body is set a flame, pleasure building and winding you up like a doll. Your thighs shake, he just watches you drown in your lust. He’s intrigued, you think, because he just waits with the head of his cock still inside. You wiggle your ass, hoping for him to move, to fuck you senseless.

You’re reprimanded with a sharp smack to your ass but you welcome the pain, embrace it.

You can’t see it yet you feel it. The vicious drip of his spit on your stretched-out hole. You shiver and your eyes roll back into your skull, his thumb traces where you two connect, smearing his saliva, “J—Joel, please,” you beg but you know it’s futile. He’s going to take you apart only to piece back together.

“You still think I don’t know how to fuck?” he hisses, a cruel taunt you didn’t expect. You shake your head and close your eyes. Another smack follows, prompting the clench of your cunt. He groans.

Joel finally gives you what you want. What you need.

His pace is brutal, fast and hard, desperate, just like you feel. He knocks the air from your lungs with every thrust, the smack of his hips bruising. Joel has no shame in the voices he makes, he groans, moans and fucks you harder, forcing you to be loud with him. When you let out a particularly high-pitched whimper, he covers your body with his own like a blanket and ruts into you. His wings rustle and shake, the tip of it touching your lips before it moves away. You see bright starts when he grazes upon a particularly sensitive spot, your jaw dropping and body tensing. He mouths at your neck, hand sliding between your legs, the pads of his fingers brush against your puffy clit—

A knock. A loud one at that.

The sound startles you both into stillness, and you let out a hiss from under your breath. You’ve forgotten that Tess was going to come by. Apologetically you reach back and manage to squeeze Joel’s thigh, your fingers sliding over the muscle from sweat. Joel understands that this will have to wait but instead of letting you go like you expected, he lifts you up from the coffee table, your back flush against his chest. You both face the door and another knock follows, your body tensing.

“I’m not gonna stop fuckin’ you for no one,” he groans, pushing even deeper. Your head falls to his shoulder and your nipples tight. “She can come back.”

“Joel, she might hear us,” you hiss but make no move to actually stop him. You feel him smirking against your skin. He slowly draws his hips back and thrusts into you—hard. Your body jerks and you cover your mouth last second before a moan can slip out.

“That’s it, just keep quiet and she’ll be none the wiser.”

Tess’s voice calls out your name through the door and knocks again, louder this time. Your eyelids flutter, your orgasm rapidly building from the thought of being caught. If Tess decides to break the door, which you don’t put past her, she’d see you in your full naked glory; your breast swaying with every ruck of Joel’s hips, your face dazed as you attempt to keep your noises to yourself. . .

“You’re so fuckin’ wet—you’re turned on, aren’t you? Filthy thing, you like the idea of your best friend seein’ you gettin’ your brains fucked out?”

You don’t dare answer and instead, you just take it. His fingers toy with your clit, swirling and drawing shapes over and over until your entire body is trembling and your core is tight. Joel’s hips stutter, pacing frantic, “Yes yes yes yes—come for me, sweetheart. I wanna feel you so bad, come on, that’s it—that’s it—”

It happens both suddenly and torturingly slow. Your body locks up and you squeeze around him, gushing and moaning helplessly into your palms. Your nostrils flare. Joel holds you tight, preventing you from accidentally jerking away and falling face-first into the table, you think Tess is still knocking but it soon ends. Your body is quivering, slick dripping, and sliding down his length. He kisses your cheek, then drags his lips down to your neck, sucking the sensitive skin.

He starts to move again, “Joel,” you whimper and he stops, lips decorating your skin with more kisses. “I want you to come inside me.”

You swear his cock swells even more.

“Yeah?” he sounds amazed, almost. “You want me to fill this pretty pussy up?”

“Please.”

“A’right sweet girl, I will, I will,” he bites the tender flesh of your shoulder, hips drilling into you even harder than before. Your brain short circuit. Your poor, sensitive cunt tingling with overstimulation. With every snap of his hips you feel slick gushing from your core and your hands fully drop from your mouth, your body pliant with pleasure.

It doesn’t take Joel long to come undone. He fucks into you one last time and keeps you still on his cock. Another orgasm rips from you at the pressure, his come filling you with violent, desperate spurts. His hips twitch. Joel licks the salt off your skin and then kisses the damp skin. You sigh with relief, hand dropping to your stomach. It feels good. So fucking good for him to claim you in such an intimate way.

“Mine,” he growls, fingers biting into the flesh of your stomach. Again, his wings form a shield around you, trapping you two together.

You smile and thread his fingers with your own, “Yours.”

Note to self, always go to the door when Tess comes over.

But honestly, how the hell were you supposed to know that she came over to warn you?

You’ve seen the text first. You were out on the street doing some quick shopping before you returned home to Joel, however, before you could process what she had written you were surrounded. Familiar symbols of the cult decorated their suits and before you knew it, your vision blacked out.

When you open your eyes once more, you notice that your hands are bound to the ceiling to keep you up. You hear the familiar buzz of the purple binds, much stronger and deadlier than regular rope. The back of your head throbs, an unpleasant pressure behind your eyes, you hiss and look down.

The door opens.

“Where is he?” a man with a white mask asks, stepping into the dingy cell.

You raise your gaze, “Who?”

You can’t see his face but you know he’s angry underneath the cheap plastic. He balls his hands into tight fists and before you know it, his knuckles hit you square in the jaw. You groan and spit up blood.

“Where. Is. He.”

You cough, the taste of iron overwhelming your taste blood. Still, you don’t yield. You look him straight in the eye and force a broken smile.

“Who?”

Joel knew all of it was too good to be true.

The good food, the sex, the woman who loved him despite what and who he was—it should’ve tipped them off that it was only the calm before the storm. The solitude before ruin. He’d seen it many times before, why had he ignored it now?

His eyes narrow and his wings fold, aiding his sharp dive to the building Tess had described. The wind slices at his cheeks, deafens him.

Joel knows why he ignored it.

It was because he was happy for the first time in forever.

He crashes through the glass ceiling, shards of it bursting across the hard marble floor. He sees familiar people in suits covered in symbols. Joel snarls at them, his wings close to him. They’re the same people that imprisoned him—and now they had found the only thing he cared about to lure him into the wolf's den. Well, his capture won’t be easy this time.

He’ll make them pay. He’ll make them all pay.

Joel spreads out his wings and watches the foot soldiers cower in fear. He feels the dark energy pulsing in his palms, adding to his strength, and without a second thought he unleashes it, sharp arrows of darkness spearing their hearts, making them see their worst nightmares before falling.

He kills, kills, and kills. They all feel his eternal pain before they fall, a fall that is much kinder than the one he had to endure. Joel leaves a trail of corpses on his way to you, his heart locked in fear of what might have happened to you.

Joel senses you—your fear, your pain, your hope. He follows those strong feelings. You lead him to a hard steel door, and with the flat of his palm, the door turns to dust.

Joel’s heart stops beating.

You’re strung to the ceiling, your temple caked with blood, your body battered and bruised. You can barely breathe, your lips parting with short gasps.

His rage is sudden and blinding. His shoulders raise with his wings, he sees the other man in the room with you, his gloved hands wet with your blood. The man turns to grab a weapon but Joel doesn’t grant him the favor. In the blink of an eye, he’s in front of him, his hands on his jaw, he forces the snap of his neck, a sickening crack echoing in the small chamber.

He deserved something worse than death for hurting you, momentarily Joel regrets giving him the easy way out.

“Joel,” your voice drags him away from his thoughts, his heart breaks at how soft it is. “Is that you?”

Joel’s wings drop. He realizes his hands are wet with blood and shadows, he shakes the shadows off but the blood remains.

“Joel?” you say again, and this time he snaps out of it fully, making his way towards you. He cradles your cheeks, kisses you deep before shattering the cuffs around your wrists. You sigh when you feel the familiar broad chest against your cheek, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Joel.”

“It’s me,” he answers. “I’m—I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. In the end, you got here, didn’t you? That’s what matters.”

He should’ve come sooner. Shouldn’t have waited around for Tess, he should’ve broken into every building and burned this city down until he found you. Leaving the chamber, Joel is careful not to make any sudden movements. His eyes soften, a hard knot in his throat when you nuzzle into him while he carries you away.

“I’ve got you now, sweetheart. You’re safe, you’re safe,” his grip tightens around you. “I will keep hurting. I will keep killing. Anything to protect you. Never again.”

His steps come to a sudden halt as he feels your weak touch on his cheek. Joel looks down in worry but you’re smiling, his chest lightens.

“Same goes for me,” you say, voice hoarse. “They can break every bone but I’ll never let them take you. Never again.”

Joel looks at your weathered body. Humans were always so fragile, so prone to death. You’re nothing but a speck of dust compared to the dangers that lurked in this world—compared to him. But human resilience has always been something that immortals had feared.

He smiles and nods.

Joel firmly believes, deep within his heart, that he is safe as long as you’re here with him.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller au #fallen angel au #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 8 months

Text

to leave the blood stay in the veins

monster!könig x f!rcursed!reader (no use of 'y/n') 6.6k words NSFW!

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT‼️CW: extremely NSFW, descriptions of gore, implied consumption of human flesh by a non-human monster, mention of necrotic curse, monsterfucking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, knotting (no omegaverse), outdoor sex, ambiguous ending, pre-established relationship, 0% proofread, könig and reader are both fucking unhinged.

Day 01 of the Haunted Hoedown Challenge by @/inklore

taboo au (monsterfucking) + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into." + oh no i'm dating the town serial killer

There is a beast in the woods, and it leaves so little meat on the bone that not even carrion birds find value in the corpses it leaves behind.

It’s a strange town in the foothills of the Austrian Alps, full of little sicknesses hiding in the corners, and you learned them well when you moved here. No one goes past the treeline at night. Hardly anyone is outside of home if they can help it. Tourists are the beast’s fodder.

Your boyfriend thinks it’s funny.

König, under his ever-present hood–a not altogether uncommon sight in your town, people come here when they have something to hide, something they are uncomfortable with or find hideous in themselves, and he has given an unimaginable amount for you out of love–laughs, sharp in the tooth.

“Anyone dumb enough to head into the trees is dumb enough to die,” he teases, but there is an arrogance and a contempt swimming deep in his bloodshot blue eyes.

“That’s coldblooded, but not wrong,” you tell him, from behind your own mask. Plain thing, blank in expression, modeled from the one from Eyes Without A Face. It covers the ravages of a curse, numb necrosis slowly spreading up your face through the years. “I still want you to get me a gun.”

“What’s a gun going to do against a thing like that?” he asks, tilting his head, the hood bagging off the curled horns that start at his temples and sweep back over his ears. “Something like that, you need silver. I’ll get you a knife. Big one. Nice and fucking sharp, Schatzi.”

The knife isn’t a comfort when the beast begins to hunt in town. It stalks from house to house, preying on people in their beds, their living rooms, their bathtubs–there is no rhyme or reason, not a whit of discernable pattern.

Only teeth-gouged bones and viscera ground into wall, tile, and carpet alike. Your neighbor falls victim, and you watch the police from your window, flinching when a veteran officer stumbles out into the fall-frosted grass to vomit, sobbing and pulling his hair.

“It got Emil,” you say, still watching through your sheer curtains.

König nearly cackles from your bed, lounging as he visits. “Good. Emil was a piece of shit. Depperte Fut.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, over your shoulder, before returning back to the circus in the yard next door. “‘Stupid cunt’ is a pretty strong insult. He was an asshole, but I don’t think he deserved to die like that,” you mumble.

“You don’t know all that much about your neighbors, Schatzi.”

You begin to rock side-to-side on your hips, the enormous silver blade König gifted you turning over and over in your hands, the point digging lightly into your palm.

It’s insane, the way you begin to tell yourself that you’ve seen König’s face nearly everyday for the last two years—you can see it right now. He lies on your bed, pointed teeth gleaming under his split philtrum in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp and the red-blue flash of the cruisers. You know there is a man under the hood, however odd and satyr-seeming.

And yet. And yet.

The blade digs a little too deep, drawing a curse-blackened bead of blood. König’s eyes burn into the back of your neck, and you can only guess his horizontal pupils dilate into black holes.

Just quit your job. I’ll take care of you.

It’s a simple enough promise, and one you know König will keep, but not one you’re willing to make. You have few shreds of independence, hard-bought through years of fighting back against misfortunes and setbacks, and, no matter the depths with which you love him, you’re not willing to trade your shit wage on faith for love of a man. It doesn’t matter how helplessly besotted he is.

It’s this molar-cracking grit that delivers you right to the beast. Because you were forced to pick up an extra half shift at the hotel to fold towels behind the front desk, because you needed the money, because you wanted to pay back your beautiful, bloodthirsty boyfriend for the ridiculous blade he begat you.

The god forsaken thing lumbers down a deserted street, blocks from your little rental, and something fucking horrendous seizes you. It’s enormous, walking on cloven hooves and back-bent legs. Its arms are too fucking long, clawed, jagged. And worst is the skull, bleached white and glowing like a beacon in the dark, an enormous rack of brutally sharp horns dripping trinkets of bone and gold that glints in the street lamp it approaches.

A horrible fact hits you. It’s not lumbering, it’s wandering. Putting a massive, craggy hand on fences and peering into houses, taking its time, evaluating. You swear you can almost hear it humming.

You don’t know when your hand found the handle of the silver blade strapped to your belt under your coat, but the leather on the grip bites your palm with the force of your grip, a nauseous, cold sweat terror tearing apart your ability to think.

It’s a primal fear, one that makes you want to protect your soft, vulnerable neck, even if the blood that warms it runs venomous.

It’s a bad choice, but there are no good ones. When the beast lifts its head and scents the air, skull snapping your direction and shaking its grisly trophies, you run. You snap the huge blade off your hip and drop into a dead sprint, cutting between yards, trying to escape the horrendous bellow that reverberates through the bony chambers of the monster’s skull.

Choosing to run instead of freezing maybe bought you a few extra minutes before death decided it was time to seize your pulse in reclamation, and it hurts. The physical exertion it takes to bomb through the last stretches of suburbia before the forest closes in feels like you are breaking every bit of your body by forced choice, listening to that awful fucking thing chase after you.

Your blade makes a slicing sound cutting through the air at your side, the monster’s hooves pound the dirt as it digs in and chases after you, but, good god, it doesn’t sound like it’s even trying.

You don’t dare look back, pushing your body past agony, your lungs shredding in your chest. You’ve never moved this fast, you’ve never run this hard for this long. Your body is TV static—hissing, popping, distant—and, insanely, the urge to cry drills into your eye sockets.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die, stupidly and dumbly and pointlessly, because you wanted to pay your boyfriend a stupid sum of fucking money, for a stupid fucking knife that he bought you on a stupid fucking joke.

Two meters from the second worst decision of your life, the monster snaps out, rough hand between your shoulder blades, crashing you into the goddamned dirt. Your eyebrow splits on a tree root, your eyes roll in the back of your head, your hand stays manically tight on the blade, slicing your other arm.

“Schaaaatzi,” the miserable fucking thing hisses, pressing that same hand between your shoulder blades, pinning you into the freezing dirt.

Oh, god, no, it has König’s voice. It’s—it’s not him, but it has his voice, thin and washed out as low-hung fog, but you would know that voice. In hell, in high water, in the dirt with a massive, bark-rough hand grinding your skin raw through your coat—you - know - his - voice.

Furiously, you slash the blade over your head, behind your back, screaming and digging your feet in the dirt. For a brief second, as you hack at the wood of the monster’s hand and wrist, you’re even able to push yourself off the ground by mere inches. The beast growls and shoves you back down twice as hard, knocking the wind out of you, spasming your hand open. The knife drops, and you begin to blindly try digging and dragging yourself away.

“Stop…hurting…me,” the beast lows, still in your boyfriend’s voice, and you imagine a bathtub full of gnawed bones, a living room with scattered body parts, your kitchen smeared with blood like cave wall art, and you start to scream as loud as your lungs will allow, your mask filling with dirt in your horrendous and futile bid to escape. Bloody murder bellows, filled with rage, wanting to kill and consume and conflagrate.

If König is dead, you will take your pound of flesh. You will either die fighting, or win, and you will hack apart this freak-fuck’s corpse to burn in your woodstove to warm your home. You’ll mount its fucking skull on your front door, so anything else in these woods will know you won’t hesitate to make trophies of them either.

Bone, warm to the touch, presses against the back of your head. When it breathes, the air is as hot as exhaust, almost scalding your back. “Schatzi,” it bids you slowly once again.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” it rips your throat raw to shriek it, reaching back and almost dislocating your arms to rip at anything you can. Your hands fall on the dressings attached to its horns, you tear off a vertebra, and a gold wedding band, and a bracelet of rave kandi in plastic beads. “IF YOU HURT HIM, I’LL YOU FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The head presses harder, driving your face into the dirt. There is something desperate in the pressure. It spits all at once, grating and wide in a voice you know better than your own, “You pissed off a fucking witch, because you ran out of riddles to tell her, when she was ransoming you to your arshloch grandmother. She never paid. That’s why you were cursed—no one gave a fuck. But I gave her my face for you, to stop it halfway, better than fucking nothing.”

Your rage freezes immediately, your chest heaving under the weight it presses down on you.

No one knows that. Only König. He’s the only person who would know about his lonely and quiet climb up to the Scottish highlands. Besides you, and the witch, König is the only one who would know why his human face was distorted, malformed, made animalistic.

“Lee?” you pant, unleashing part of his first name, the only one he ever tolerates. And, fuck, instantly the pressure pulls away, the skull rubbing against your back to soothe it.

“It’s me, Schatzi,” the slow voice promises, nuzzling you. There’s rustling above you that you don’t dare turn to see. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

A tinkling piece of jewelry lowers in front of your eyes, and you can see that it dangles from an enormous, ligneous finger. You’re being shown a sterling silver charm bracelet. You’re being shown your bracelet, the one you thought you had lost months ago.

Your hand shoots out, wrapping around the finger, the peeling bark shearing off under your grip. You find instantly that you can pull yourself up on your hip, sitting, caged and protected under the beast’s massive body—under König’s massive body.

He shifts back onto his digitagrade haunches, holding himself over you, still offering your bracelet. He shudders at your touch on his hand, and you imagine that he may’ve never been handled with kindness in this shape. Which makes a certain amount of sense. Because he fucking kills and eats people.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, staring dead into the hollow sockets of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head. “Why—you have me so fucked up—what have you been thinking—?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, do you have to—”

“Yes, I have to, fucker.” It’s impossible to wrap your head around the magnitude of what a simple secret and a silver bracelet has done to your understanding of the world. A complete unraveling—upheaval, utterly.

You take the bracelet from his finger, on which it fits like a ring, and push it into your wrist, sitting up on your knees and grabbing him by the underside of his jaw. Though it puts you in his blind spot, staring dead center at the sinus dimples between his eyes, it feels like you have a mote of power over him.

(If he were asked, he would say the power you hold over him could corrupt, absolutely. He would badly like you to ask someday.)

“Why are you—what are you? Have you always been like this? Or was this new, with the fucking witch? Are—Jesus Christ—why are—the monster isn’t supposed to come into town, why are you in TOWN?” you run off at the mouth, words stalling and crashing and fusing together as your thoughts overwhelm just how quickly you can speak.

And up from that impossibly deep throat–simultaneously from the center of your brain, and from all around you all at once–crawls König’s pitchy hyena-laugh, edged, always, with cruelty. He butts the jagged end of his nasal cavities into your stomach, catching on the threads of your sweater.

“Leshy, Schatzi, say it for me.”

Your hands pull his jaw closer, digging the bone into your stomach, wondering if he can feel the pressure of your deep breathing. Oh, fuck, you could crack. This is your König. You start to wonder how many of his perverse buttons you can hit, the part of you that felt shame for your attraction to what the world discarded as ‘ugly’ long ago removed from your emotional bank.

“Leshy,” you say, really leaning into the word, saying it deep in your chest. One of your hands travels the long length to the hinge of his jaw, gripping tight, directing his head to turn so you can meet one of his empty eyes. “Answer my fucking questions.”

The laugh doesn’t come this time. In its place is a near-violent whole-body shudder that wracks through you.

“Old! Alwaaays been this way,” and even in the strange disconnect of his voice from his physical form, you can tell his arousal is eating away at him in big bites–clipping his speech, broiling his brain with body heat, “can’t remember ever being young, haa-haa. And why do you think I’m hunting in town?”

Another trap, a stupid pop quiz, wanting to test your knowledge of him, or a gotcha! to check your observations and what you had missed.

Your hands get tighter, and you pull his jaw open, marveling at the sharp grooves ground into his teeth, like nightmarish, ivory rook pieces, tall and straight in the dry sockets. His chest begins to heave, his breath fogging into steaming clouds over your hands, and, remarkably, it smells like nothing at all apart from pin needles and snow.

You’d thought you’d smell decaying flesh or rotten blood. The only blood you can smell comes from your own busted brow and sliced arm, crusting black on your skin and in the fabric of your sweater as it coagulates.

“If I was working on a hunter’s instincts, I would say that Schladming has become too good at keeping people out of the forests. Even during daylight hours. It cuts down on prey,” you say, ice cold and clean as a slit throat. Your eyes flick back up to the socket, surrounded by the feeling that those glass-blue eyes of his humanoid form are drilling into you. He’s waiting for you to hit the hook. “But I’m working on your logic.”

“Oh, yeeaah,” he drawls, his hips shifting, and you feel as if he would bite his lips in anticipation now, if he could.

“Oh, yeeaah,” you echo him, “the logic of a fucking crazy asshole.” He feels like a huge grin, hands on his muscular, bunched, and flexing thighs. That detail is not lost on you. “You’re hunting in town because you’re pissed off. You reached a limit, and you got tired of sitting on your fucking reaction.”

You swear to god he moans a little. Just softly. It could be a breath, but you know him too well to dismiss it out of hand.

“That’s good, Schatzi. I like that. I like that you figured that out,” he says, definitely panting in rhythm now, his fogging breath giving away the rhythm secondary. “People are looking at you too much. I don’t fucking like it when they look at you too much.”

That’s a sudden thought that had not occurred to you, and you lash yourself silently because it hadn’t. König has always been possessive of you. Jealous. Protective. And he held grudges in ways that could spark blood feuds and successive generations of death.

Like a curse.

It’s a testament to how fucking cracked and perfectly matched the two of you are that you start laughing, stroking his orbital bones in big, pleased pats, kissing the bridge of his nose.

“Schatzi, please,” he groans, pressing into you insistently. “Promise you won’t tell. Promise me.”

“Why the fuck would I tell?” you laugh, losing track of your faculties, your very sense. What does it matter? What does it all even mean? You’ve found a man that loves you so deeply and truly and twistedly that he slaughters those who desire or deign you. You’ve found, and fallen in love with a man that would sell his face to save as much of yours as he could. “Who the fuck would I tell?”

The slope of his shoulders relaxes, and he moves closer to you, once again shielding you with the massive bulk of his body, warming you in the cold air. Tucked under his chin, you can study the soft suede-like material of his body, how the bark covering his arms gives way to a ruff of dense, double-layered fur around his shoulders and his long, muscular neck.

The rest of the muscle on him is horrendously hard, flexed like steel cabling under a layer of fat. There is something about this body that reminds you of the shape of the human one so well–long legs, a nipped waist, and flat hips built to strut and rock, all of it buttressing a broad set of shoulders.

You press your face into the ruff, pushing your fingers into it. Dear god, your hand goes deeper and deeper, and it just never seems to stop. His scent is–it’s almost familiar. He’s in there, somewhere–his musk, the metallic tang of blood seemingly sunken into his skin–but there’s so much more to it. Green, and earthy, almost like soil and moss.

A sound comes from his body, like a house settling. A deep, broad creak. The trophies on his horns rattle together, clinking like dull wind chimes. “More,” he says simply, leaving you to figure it out. Simple enough.

Your hand drops from the ruff, tracing over his convex chest, down to his stomach. Another shudder, and he pulls those big arms around your entire body, a fuller, more protective hug than you’ve ever felt.

“Schatzi–would you let me…” he breathes, a heaving sigh.

Another laugh cracks out of you, hysterical, constricted by your mask. Why not? Why shouldn’t you? You’ve always been a woman that loves monsters. You, yourself, are one. You can’t find a reason to halt your hands, nor your body, nor his desire.

In an odd show of tip-to-tail, you push the mask off your face, and kick off your boots, going for your zipper. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, come on. Show me,” you urge him, pawing at his massive waist as you struggle out of your jeans.

He groans and this obscene trill escapes his body–a low, rattling moan that travels miles through every cell of your body, his legs spreading wider. You laugh in delight and mania, watching rapt as his cock slides out of a sheath you hadn’t even caught sight of, his monstrous body a foreign land you hadn’t traveled yet, but, fuck, do you want to learn the lands well enough to call them home.

It’s heavy in your hands, a little slick, and, childishly, you almost giggle (holy shit, that is a sound that has never left your mouth in your living memory, and yet, here you are). It’s hot, hotter than you expected, and a vulnerable shade of pale, like a plant slip. Oh, and it’s elegant, almost spiraling. He huffs as you stroke the length of it, pushing your fingertips into his sheath at the base.

“I don’t think this is gonna fit,” you warn him, and it somehow feels as if you’re challenging yourself with the statement.

He takes it as a challenge for himself, though, and an aspiration to hold for you, “You are going to take all of it. I’m going to make sure.”

His massive hand comes to the back of your waist, finding your fulcrum without needing to search, pulling you off your knees to hold to beneath him. “You naked yet, or still fucking around?” he asks, breathing heavily, and you shove your jeans off the rest of the way.

“You’re being a little bitch,” you snipe, a dumb swipe at reclaiming dignity after you realize you’re so wet that it slicks your thighs, having darkened the crotch of your freshly abandoned jeans pathetically.

He throws another coarse laugh, haa-haa, shifting his massive body long, pulling you into place.

It’s on you, then, to figure out the logistics. Somehow, it just works, even through layers of physical translation. Under your hands, he reads König, loud and clear.

There’s a brief, flighty moment of terror as you rub the head of his cock between the lips of your cunt, rolling your hips to stimulate your clit against it. It is just fucking enormous, almost half again the size of his human cock. But then you grit your teeth, tipping your weight back so your shoulders rest against the dirt, bleak and unyielding ruthlessness seizing your mind.

You do not back down, you have never done it once in your life, and tonight is no different.

His head lifts, bottom jaw dropping, and he bays as you push yourself down on his length. The sound crashes into you, rocking your entire body, and the stretch burns, but you buckle down. What are the people in the houses just at the edge of suburbia thinking? Has the fucking abberation that has been slowly killing its way through their number taken to a different form of punishment? Has someone unlucky fallen to its new tastes?

It cuts your mouth into a horrid grin. If they only knew that you were no victim at all, if only they had an inkling of the fact that you are a victor. That you are the hand holding this nightmare’s collar, and he attacks for the sake of you.

Inch by inch, a slow journey, he fills you, pressing completely against your walls, body shaking with the effort it takes not to thrust fully into you. Oh, what destruction that would result in, what a wreckage that would make of your body, what lengths he would go to not ruin you in such a fashion.

“Fuck–fuck–Liebes,” he mutters, just for you, the moment he is as deep in you as he can go, most of his length still outside of what your body can handle, pleading, “I can’t–I. I have to move. Please, meine Liebes.”

“Go. Go-go-go,” you answer back, almost frantic, too full and occupied, needing motion or you might split apart into atoms. The way he answers is instant, undeniable, desperate, rocking into you as if testing waters, going faster as if he finds them warm and welcoming.

You lose yourselves to it, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, gripping onto the elbow of the arm suspending you, blood rushing to your head in an ache from the way you hang off him, forcing you lightheaded. Sap-like blood from where you’d hacked at him in rage drips down your arm, your waist, clinging to your skin in a way that feels permanent.

He tenses all around you, panting, clouds of steam fogging the air over your head from his pants. Words escape him, leaving nothing but animalistic grunts, the grinding of his dry, exposed teeth as your desperate pussy sucks him deeper and tighter.

You’d taught him as a human to find your g-spot, to destroy your brain with a steady climb, and he doesn’t even need to search now, every movement pressing every inch of his cock into it, and unrelenting onslaught that makes you shake and nearly drool, being fucked like a sacrifice.

König raps his other fist above your head and pulls out without warning, shaking his head and breathing roughly.

You imagine brutally grabbing him by the scruff and biting his ear–what kind of punishment would that even be, no worse than a bug bite to him, more likely than anything else–for the loss of his cock. Mostly just an impulsive fantasy, too barbaric and stupid to actually act upon, but you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, and it feels like hell to be split open against him with nothing inside you.

Breathless–and naked, sweating, and trembling in the woods–you start to sit up on your elbows, cunt throbbing. "What is it? Are you okay?" you ask, your love for him–your fear for him–overwhelming even your damnation-worthy starvation.

König, massive and so dark he's almost indistinguishable from the night apart from his skull, shakes his head again and puts up a clawed hand. Fine, the gesture says, and you’re realizing he’s beyond words now, but trying his best to communicate. Then he curls it into a loose fist and pantomimes masturbating and finishing.

"Christ!" But you’re laughing, tugging at a tuft of fur on his chest, spun out in your giddiness. It’s still him, you’ve already known, but to see it. To find him through this–this utterly new reality. "They teach you that signal in the forces?"

In his hollow sockets, twisting his body to watch you closely, he looks pleased with himself, ducking forward, bracing on his free hand to one side of your head as he nuzzles into your neck and breathes deeply.

He huffs, rough fingers running over your back, claws trailing the parts of your spine he can reach as he holds you, before he taps the side of your thigh with his other hand. At your eye level, he turns his finger in a slow loop. Roll over, maybe? It's worth a shot.

"Okay. Alright," you sigh, relieved. When you try to roll in his palm, he shakes his head and sets you down, pressing down against your body, pushing his arm under your ribs. With his other hand, he gestures a flat line on the ground. You ask, "On my stomach?"

Two knocks against the ground next to your head. Yes.

You stretch out flat over the frost-crisp grass, too hot to even register the chill against your bare skin, and König lowers with you, sliding the arm under you down to your diaphragm. With his knuckles, he taps your outer-thighs until they're drawn back together, and your breathing hitches when you understand what he intends.

With his legs on the outside of yours, he uses his free hand to run his cock up the length of your seam to tease your pussy, but he takes his sweet time with it. Impatient, you slide onto your knees with near-perfect timing, driving your entrance against his head, snarling with indignation when he bows away. "Fucker!"

He rumbles something almost humanoid, between a laugh and a gruff, trilling ‘rrrr’ you recognize as cousin to a sharp, challenging hum he makes when faced with an idiot comment in his human shape.

"Stop teasing me. I can't stand it," you try instead, turning to give him big eyes over your shoulder because you know that it works well on him.

He bends down and barely-barely nips the top of your ear, a startling move that leaves you perfectly inflamed all over again again. Greedy brat, it says to you, so pleased in the fact he is so desperately wanted.

The feeling of him inside you is extraordinary. He lubricates in this state, but you hardly need it with the nearly absurd way you’re wet, slick down your thighs. You wonder if your cunt is glimmering under the dim moon and streetlamps, because he'd said that to you once. Heilige sheiße, you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen, could just stare at how wet you get for me forever, he'd laughed during one delirious, marathon session of staying sunken between your legs.

He begins to rock his hips, growling quietly and pleased at the wet sounds of your of cunt squelching around him–another sound he enjoys, a marker of pride, how wet can I make my girl get–settling onto his forearm and pressing a little weight against your back.

He rests his head across your shoulders, burying his snout in your hair, breathing in hard-bought bursts of restraint.

"Yes, honey," you almost seethe, loosening your body, giving up a little of your own iron will to become just a little lost in the feeling of him. You relax your walls in a bid to take more of him, breathing tight, voice pitching up into a plea, "Yes, baby, that's perfect. That's so perfect, keep going. Just like that."

He rocks a little faster, thrusts a little deeper, breathes a little harder. The hand around your waist shifts up to your breast, but isn't dexterous enough to do more than give it an encompassing squeeze.

With your thighs pressed together, you feel as if your body can't stretch properly to take as much of him as you want (and you want all of him, every burning hot inch, fucking him so well that he cannot disappear into one of his miseries where he will not let you follow, because they all live in his head).

He ratchets back his speed, tries a new motion with his hips. He rolls instead of thrusting, a more fluid movement, brushing your insides in new ways that leave your swollen clit screaming for attention and your eyes watering. You breathe in ragged pants, fingers digging into the turf over your head, trying not to rip it with the force of your grip by the fistful.

You might cum. You might cum. You want to cum, and you might, and he's so much deeper now, panting hot as fire against your shoulders. You can feel the muscles in his abdomen clench and dance, his horns cutting the air in swipes of agitation above you, and he is so much this way. König: bigger, sometimes bloodier, but always so, so amplified.

"Honey, honey, honey," you whine in a chant under your breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to encourage him. You squeeze your thighs together for the extra stimulation, but you know you’re going to orgasm from him alone, no extra assistance needed. You’re just greedy, you just want it all, but you want him the worst.

When he pulls out this time, you snarl loud and gnash your teeth, digging your dirt-packed nails into his unyielding skin. You were full to the brim and on the wire-edge of climax, and he is so suddenly fucking gone it's almost as abrupt as violence.

"KÖNIG!" you shout, his callsign cutting from between your teeth like the desire to slit a throat, shattering the quiet around you both, reeling to find him with your burning eyes.

He collapses onto his side, cock jumping and leaking, and he whines deep in his throat, pulling at you with the flat of his hand. Your thigh, then his hip, your chest, then his–more hand signals, a story-told like a man with a sucking chest wound needing saving. He snakes his arm under you again, whining growing deeper, and you understand.

You roll, throwing your thigh over his hip, tucking tight against his chest. You give yourself one second of feeling cool air against your overheated pussy before you take him in hand and direct him home, and his deep, slick slide into you knocks the air out of your lungs like a punch to the solar plexus.

You’re only seconds away, and he can't be much farther, driving his head under yours to give you something to rest on that isn't the ground.

You don't utilize his offering, craning your neck as if you'll somehow get a glimpse of your connection from this angle–flat against him from belly to breast, resting your cheek and forehead against his heaving chest. His whine turns into a series of small, strangled howls and gasps as your voice crawls from whimpering to keening.

You’ve known you were going to cum, but you’re still somehow surprised with yourself at how quickly it's raced up, and how overwhelming it feels like it's going to be. You feel like you’re going insane.

His other arm wraps your ribs, too, squeezing you to him like you’re the only thing in the world worth keeping close, and damn him for it. You don't know why, but damn him.

"Cum, baby, cum," you instruct, gasping when you aren't clenching your teeth. You curl close to him, as close as your body will allow, spreading your legs as wide as you can. You drive back down into his thrusts, giving as much of yourself as you can, taking as much of him as you’re able.

You want it all–everything–every little bit of blood and bone that's built him into a home he offers only to you. "Cum in me. I'm ready, I want you to cum," you demand, finding it truer than true, finding yourself right on the razor-edge.

The command is all it takes. Three hard thrusts, and he's buried in you to the base, punching the wind out of your lungs, and filling you to the point of what feels like impossibility with his spend. It forces you to finish as well, lighting you up like a lightning storm, swallowing him deeper as you cum and cum like you'll never be able to stop, soaking the both of you.

You gasp a raw-throated howl, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and you praise him as his cock kicks and kicks, emptying everything he's got to give into you.

A pressure builds inside you, beginning nearly unpleasant, until something just gives and his knot anchoring him to you feels right.

It feels special and dazzlingly intimate, and you’re boggled, again, with the knowledge you’re the only person in the world that he's ever shown himself to this way. It’s just a thing you know in your marrow, an immutable truth, like the sun setting in the west, or the cruelty of witches without their wants.

You wind down, sweating and panting and filthy in each other's arms, and you rock against him, holding him inside, clenching around him what little you can. You feel so wonderfully safe, so immaculately powerful, so stupidly, crazily, fantastically in love.

When your combined breathing evens, and the knot between you retreats, you groan when König shifts back into his human form, but only for the resituating you both have to endure.

The body against yours is familiar again, and you’re dreadfully sleepy, though you want to clean yourself and eat. You crave something raw, something bloody. You hunger the way an animal hungers after a hard fuck. His spend drips out of you now that his cock's returned to normal, and it forms a trail of cooling wet down the crease where your thigh meets your ass.

You feel lovely.

König laughs, rough and spent, tucking hair out of your face and kissing your closed eyelids. "Holy fucking shit, Schatzi," he marvels, looking at you like you are the only god that has ever mattered.

Your smile cuts sharp, and your fingers find his pulse point, tracing it thoughtfully. “You hungry? I bet you're fucking starved,” is all you say in return, eyes trailing the way his hand finds the charm bracelet newly returned to your wrist, touching it like a token.

It’s late and dark when you both manage to stumble your way back to your rental. He stays close, needy and soft, his hand on your hip, tugging you into his body when he can, careful of not knocking into the big, silver knife you’d placed back in the scabbard on your belt.

The hood is back on his head, rolled up to his nose, and his split mouth kisses against your neck and behind your ear, his eyes closed like he endures a waking dream. You, in your own filthied mask again, allow it, craning your neck to give him more room, anchoring him with an arm around his waist in return.

It is late now, and the neighborhood is silent. Again, you wonder what the quiet lives inside must be thinking–whether they think the crimes have increased into a new field of brutality, if they are fearing and wondering what body parts they will find at the treeline come dawn.

You know they will not leave the safety of their homes to investigate. They would be stupid to do something like that.

“That shower is going to feel so goddamned good,” you mutter, unlocking your door, and he nods against your skin.

“Oh, yeeaah,” he says, and the familiarity of the phrase makes you hum a laugh, shutting your eyes as you push through the threshold. "Get that blood off your skin before it stains. Your poor face, your poor arm. Poor Schatzi."

He splits off from you with a facsimile of a kiss–your masks pressing together at the mouth–and he pinches your ass before he takes off to the kitchen, his stomach growling, not even bothering to take off his boots.

You, however, kick off your shoes, and pull together clean clothes, heading toward the bathroom in the hall, the one with the big shower, in case he decides to join you.

Sleepy and content, you listen to his boots move heavily over the kitchen tile, the sound of the fridge door hissing snickt as he pulls it open, and shoves things around in his search for food. You nearly sway up to the closed door–why is it closed, you barely manage to wonder–your eyelids lead-weighted.

It takes only one thing to make them snap open wide, your back going ramrod straight. A dark smear, curling around the knob, around the edge of the door where it seams to the jamb.

Cold grips your lungs, sending your heart galloping painfully in the cage of your ribs, wondering if it really is copper you smell, or if it is a trick of your mind. The hall is too dark to tell if the swipe on the white door is red or black–if it is blood, if it is König’s or yours.

There is a presence at your back, and enormous hands on the door on either side of your head, so fast you cannot tell if you were even able to blink before you saw his wide, scarred, and knuckle-broken limbs spreading wide across the wood.

Your hand finds the grip of the knife, looking at the brutal gouges you had hacked into his forearm earlier in the night, and you are thinking faster and harder than you ever have in your life, realizing in a terrible microsecond that you will have to make a decision–that you will have to choose what reality you are willing to live with, or that you are simply mistaken.

Either way, you are moments from learning.

“Something wrong, Schatzi?” your boyfriend’s familiar voice asks, low and raspy, hot against the nape of your neck.

The laugh in his tone is cruel, and you can’t tell whether it belongs to König, or something pretending to be him.

tag-list: @alittleposhtoad @bitchoftoji @dotcie @kastlequill @miyabilicious @moths569 @parttimeprophet @pssytrux <3

#hauntedhoedown #konig #könig #call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader #konig smut #my work

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creepling · 8 months

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that boy is a monster - j. slaughter / 2.6k

in contribution with THE HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompts: sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

summary: everyone comes and goes from the slaughter residence, either as survivors or stacks of meat. but as you escape and run further into the woods, johnny won't let you go that easy.

tags: DEAD DOVE - read at your own risk. smut. MINORS DNI. fem!reader. non-con. hunter/prey. knife/blood-play. descriptive injury. narcissistic johnny. fem penetration. blood hunger. choking. roughplay. slapping. kidnapped ending.

It would help to know the surroundings. Sprint the track to get to the finish line. But you’re bleeding. Your legs ache, and the tree branches are tearing at your skin. The calls of the Slaughter family echo in the distance.

Running for your life is supposed to be the escape. You’re out of the house, but your heroic end is not at a close. You have to keep running. You have to survive. And one person, in particular, will not give you up so easily.

“You’re the reason this is happening. You brought them damn kids here. You go get ‘er!” Drayton told off Johnny, waving his bloody stick towards the exit you stumbled out of.

Johnny was cool in his stance. He is cleaning his knife, sharpening its blade. He admires the glint of it in the moonlight, a sly smirk winking back at him in its reflection.

“Keep yer panties on, old man. I’ll get her,” He brushes off the Cook, swaggering towards the gate.

With his family seeing him off, Nubbie chuckles and cheers him on. Sissy claps and howls. “Bring her back fresh now, ye hear!”

Johnny was not going to share. He wants to play with his food and keep you all to himself. Once he finds you, you’re going to scream. He will have your insides, grip your flesh and suck your blood. His family will not have a nip of you. You’re all his.

The beginning of the hunt sent Johnny’s instincts into overdrive. Your shadow mystifies into the forest, and he picks up the pace to dive into the belly of the beast. He grunts as he sprints, inhaling the air. He was only human, but everything in his attitude was animalistic. A coyote in a man’s body, wanting to catch your scent, embarks on the trail you left behind and chases you until your soft flesh is between his teeth.

Deep within the sun-dried trees, Johnny halts his speed and listens to the silence. He peered his hearing for the snap of a twig, the ruffle of a leaf, anything to assume you were close by. He crouches to the earth and calculates the ground. His eye caught an indent, your shoe print heavy in the dry dirt, the heel dragged out, exposing your struggle. Johnny was mesmerised for a moment, then he advanced, tailing the track of your footprints to the direction of your hiding spot. He arrives at a dead end, cursing under his breath. He catches a look above, checking the trees, but both the trees and you are too fragile to hold weight. His eyes scan the horizon, wondering how far you have gone.

“I’m gonna find ya soon enough, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out, and we can get this over with?” Johnny called into the night, his skin tingling at the thought of you nearby.

He was closer than you thought. Tugged low in the dip of the earth, you bite the inside of your cheeks and muffle any sound of panic that threatens to burst. You may be bleeding, tired, and traumatised, but you will not give up. If he wants you to meet the same faint as your friends, he will have to come and get you.

At the deafening silence, Johnny sighs. It was long and drawn, but it soon shifted into a chuckle, and he gripped the handle of his knife tighter. “Fine, I like the challenge.”

Johnny advances, his footsteps descending to whisper when you decide to leave your hiding spot. You drag your limping body in the opposite direction, clenching your side as a cramp takes over. You look around with alert eyes, hoping to find an opening or another hiding spot if he is close. Your hope dwindles at the same scenery repeating: trees, branches, dirt. Over and over. No sounds alert you, making your eyelids droop and blur your vision. You look down at your body, your clothes drenched in blood, giving sense to your lightheadedness. The blood loss and dehydration were slowly creeping up and taking over you. Legs wobbling, making you fall.

“Come on,” You whispered, “You can do this.”

Johnny had his eyes on you. He watches you struggle, crouching within the dry branches. Your pain and fatigue amuse him, reassuring him that mortality can be handy for this line of passion. He loved a prey’s fear, how it ignites them with the endurance to keep living. Yet, the thing that is chasing them will always catch them. It can only get them so far. It lets them die with a fight still in them. People call that honour, but to Johnny, it is the thrill of the game.

It has been long enough. Johnny watches you collapse, grunting at the pain taking over, your knees buckling as you try to crawl your way further. Johnny cracks his neck and readies his blade, his heavy steps approaching you.

“I gotta hand it to ya. You got some fight in ya,” Johnny mused, towering over your struggling state.

The widening of your eyes made Johnny chuckle, tuts leaving his mouth as you began to sob.

“Come on now, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not yet, anyway,” Johnny grips the back of your hair, yanking your head from the ground and crouching down on top of you. His legs saddle your sides, squeezing in to hold you in place. You catch the glint of his knife hovering over your throat, threatening to slice if you struggle.

“Ma mama always got at me for playing with my food as a kid. I never grew out of it. Y’know why?” Johnny presses his lips to your ear. You could now hear the husk in his voice.

“Because I fuckin’ love it,”

Your hands grip the earth, and a scream bellows from your strained throat, sirening through the trees, making birds take flight. Johnny shoves your head to the ground to silence you, pressing his blade tighter to the skin of your throat.

“You shout one more time, and I’ll cut you,” He spat, causing you to dwindle your struggle into small whimpers.

“Just kill me, please,” You plead, Johnny on top of you, detecting that you would rather be dead than be at his mercy.

Johnny enjoys having the upper hand far too much, grazing his gloved hand down your spine, lingering on the skin exposed from your summer blouse. He glances at the cuts littering your exposed arms, blood dripping from a knick on your shoulder. Johnny licks his lips in anticipation, locking his lips on your wound. You gasp, cringing at the suction from his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut and soaking his mouth with your blood.

As if energy surged through him, Johnny groans at your taste, licking his lips dry. Your taste is sweetly metallic. He has never tasted something so pure—the blood of a lamb or a calf, laced with innocence and avoidant of bitterness. Johnny’s eyes wander down at you like the discovery of the Holy Grail. “You taste amazing.”

Johnny grips your arm and manhandles you to lie on your back, your arms feeble in your struggle. Johnny scans your body for more wounds, grunting in annoyance as most were muddy grazes. His legs add pressure to your sides, his hand nipping at the hem of your blouse.

“Keep still,” Johnny orders sternly, moving his knife to your shirt and cutting the thin fabric with the blade. You whine in defiance, but your top is torn off completely and tossed to one side. Johnny stares at the curvature of your bra, tucking his knife under the band and slicing it swiftly. Your breasts graze with goosebumps at your exposure. You squeeze your eyes shut from the humility. Johnny runs his knife down your left breast, the blunt end teasing your hardening nipple.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” He breathes out, removing his glove with the pinch of his teeth. His bare, rough hand grips your breast, making you squirm. You glance up at Johnny, the maddening of his eyes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you in place. Sweat glistens on his face. You feel warmth between your legs as Johnny’s bulge presses against your stomach.

Without warning, Johnny slices a small incision on your soft breast, making you gasp from the shot of pain. Johnny immediately locks his lips on the fresh slice, his tongue collecting your new blood, letting a groan vibrate against you. He sucks your breast as he would with your nipple, except his infatuation is solely on your blood. Your fingers lace through his hair, and you attempt to yank him away, but he points his blade quickly to your throat.

“Move your hand, or I’ll cut you open,” Johnny threatens, pressing the blade hard, alerting panic within you.

“I can’t- I can’t do this, please,” You beg, “I want to go home,”

“Is this not want you want, darlin’?” Johnny teased, “Your cunt says otherwise.”

His head motions down and between your legs, sliding his fingers along the denim fabric of your shorts. Your throat hitches, and your legs tense, locking eyes with the darkening stare from Johnny.

“You want this, I know you want this,” Johnny mutters against his lips, “Let me make you feel good. I need this, darlin’, you gotta give yourself to me.”

His lips lock roughly with yours, his kiss hard - possibly laced with a lingering passion. You taste your blood on his tongue. You moan unexpectedly.

“See? You taste so good. Let me taste you more,” Johnny said as if he were asking, but you know you have no choice.

The sound of panic bubbles in your throat as you feel Johnny’s hands unbutton your shorts, yelping as he tugs the tight fabric down your legs. He crawls his fingers under your pants, catching your slick cunt with the tip of his fingers, collecting your wetness. Johnny groans, reaching his fingers to his lips and licking your juices. Just as sweet as your blood, warm and intoxicating.

Johnny grinds his hips down onto you before unbuckling his jeans, tossing his belt to your eye level. Your eyes trail to the sky, your mind dissociating at the sound of his jeans undone. Johnny preys your legs wider apart with his thighs, the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me, darlin’. Still sure you don’t want this?” Johnny’s pride swells at your defeat, pupils dilated at the sight of yours glazed and lost.

“I would rather be dead,” You said airily, almost inaudible. Johnny narrows his eyes, power swelling in his muscles. He wants you to beg for his cock or mercy; it does not matter.

Without warning, Johnny thrusts his cock inside, and pain shoots up your spine. He was big, more significant than you have ever taken, and he was stretching you out. You squeeze your eyes shut, and the tears trapped in your waterline pour down your cheeks. You silence the yelps filled with pain to adjust to the horrible feeling. But your cunt was wet, wet enough for Johnny to thrust deeper inside you and hold his length firmly inside you.

“Fuuuck,” Johnny groaned. Your walls clenched around his cock, and his hands grip the sides of your waist. “Sucha tight little pussy,” Johnny chuckled.

You shift your body back and forth to adjust to the pain, but it paralysed you, and Johnny drilled you deeper into the ground with the weight of his body. The cool earth stings your wounds and gathers in the grooves of your skin. It is disgusting. It is revolting. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Fuck you,” You spit at Johnny, manifesting your cunt to grow teeth and bite his cock clean.

Johnny furrowed his brows at your revolt, burning a glare to your core. “The fuck you say to me?” Johnny smacked your face, stunning you, but you force eye contact.

“I said fuck you, you fucking-“ Your rage stopped short at the shuddering pain shooting through you. Johnny digs his knife into your side, toying with an open wound. You squirm, scream, try to pry him off you, but his other hand pins your wrists above your head, and his cock is stuffed deeper inside you.

“You really think talking to me like that is a good idea?” Johnny scoffs, watching the pain in your expression with perverted fascination. “Such a stupid ‘lil brat. I need to teach you a lesson.”

The pain melted into numbness. Your eyes drift further away from reality, and Johnny amps his stamina. It seemed neverending, his cock pumping into your cunt, the depth of his thrusts consistent. Johnny’s body towers over you, his knife tossed to the side. It proved useless as your body grew limp, the strength of Johnny’s arms pinning you in place enough to restrict your escape. No more were you retaliating to Johnny’s dominance.

“That’s it, good girl. Take it,” Johnny grunted, but he was not satisfied with your reaction. Lying there as you get fucked dumb, staring into space. He needs you to be compliant, to be grateful. Johnny tugs your hair and forces your gaze onto him, bathing in your bewildered stare.

“C’mon girl, I know you want this. Say how much you want it,” Johnny demands, continuing to rut into your pulsing cunt.

“I-” It was hard to string words together, but you had nowhere to look except deep in Johnny’s hunter eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Say it, fucking say it,” Johnny grew impatient, smacking his fingers over your cheeks, hoping that knocked sense into you.

“I want you, Johnny,” You sobbed, mesmerised by his insanity.

“Yeah, you fucking do. Start thanking me for fucking you so good,” Johnny enfolds his cock deep inside, holding it in place until you speak what he wants to hear.

“Thank you,” You swallow the lump in your throat, “You’re so good at fucking me. I want you to keep fucking me.”

Swelling with pride, Johnny exhales a deep groan and continues to drill into you, picking up the pace. He felt his climax ascending from his core, gazing at the bounce of your tits, your plump skin covered in the blood he poured from you. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m so close, darlin’. Fuuuck,” Johnny wraps his callous hand around your throat, suppressing your air flow until you see stars.

Johnny rutted his cock to ride his high. You feel the strips of warmth melt from your slit as he pulls out, his pants hot and misty against your neck. Your eyes trail over to Johnny, buckling his jeans and quickly putting on your underwear and shorts.

“Sorry about your blouse,” He mutters, removing his tank top and putting it on you. There is no point in convincing yourself he did it out of the kindness of his heart, as it is to carry you back to the place you tried to escape from and not make the rest of the family suspicious.

Johnny lifts you and tosses your body over his shoulder, your mind and body too exhausted and petrified to wiggle from his grasp. “Let’s take you back home,” He says.

Home. That place was not your home. But to Johnny, he is making it your home. There goes the days of elaborate escapes, deception and retribution. He will have you wrapped around his figure. He shall convince you that no one else cares for you. Only he will protect you, care for you, and love you.

Welcome to the family.

#johnny slaughter x reader #johnny sawyer x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #tcm game #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter #creepling.brainrot #tw non-con #tcm fanfic #hauntedhoedown

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always-andromeda · 8 months

Text

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Professor!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 3268

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + dark academia + “I can see how badly you want this, so I'm going to make sure you get it.”

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ I’ve loved this man literally since I was thirteen…so it’s inevitable that I’d be writing something absolutely fucking filthy for him in my twenties…

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), gaps in age and power, mutual masturbation, little bit of panty sniffing, a singular use of Y/N (I'm sorry, I hate it too but it was necessary), usage of pet names (sweetheart), general manipulation, slight praise kink, obvious disclaimer: the dynamic in this fic is just that, fictional, and should not be practiced in real life!! let me know if any other warnings are needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

You’d rarely had luck receiving any sort of grace from your professors. Sure, there were a select few that only wanted to see you succeed. However, more often than not you seemed to encounter sadists who decided to take their kinks out on exhausted college students. But you were convinced that Professor Winchester wouldn’t be like that.

For starters, he’d always been challenging but never malicious. Despite the fact that you’d registered for his Norse Mythology course with the assumption that it would be easy college credits, you quickly learned that his assignments were difficult. Every week there seemed to be about a hundred pages worth of reading, frequent essays, and an emphasis on class discussion.

Oh, did he love those class discussions. While most were less than enthusiastic to contribute to lengthy examinations of Eddic poetry at eight in the morning, Professor Winchester seemed to be none the wiser of this.

He was always squinting over his thin wire framed glasses, surveying the class. He’d stand at his desk, brushing his long hair behind his ear while looking over papers. When he’d listen he’d purse his lips and tilt his head, expression rife with genuine interest. In all of these moments, he was the most gorgeous. But more than that, you were fascinated with his mind.

Professor Winchester knew this material like the back of his hand; was able to pull references and quotes from various pieces of literature at the drop of a hat. He was the only professor who could ever give notes that were actually helpful on essays and he’d always been generous with handing out extra credit assignments. Which is what you aimed to obtain on this visit to his office.

You looked through the glass of his office door and saw him inside, working diligently at a dark oak wood desk. Taking a deep breath, you turned the doorknob and entered.

The hinges squeezed but Winchester seemed so fixated on whatever was before him that he only raised a finger, indicating for you to wait. So you did. Awkwardly. You rocked slightly on your heels, your stomach starting to twist in time with the movement. God, he looked like a dream lit by the stained glass banker's lamp as he graded papers.

In another world you could see him coming home from a long day, his body warm behind you as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Smelling like black coffee and pencil shavings, you'd adoringly close your eyes, taking in his scent and ask him how his day went. He'd hum in contentment when resting his chin on your head; you're his rock, his soulmate, the reason he stays sane despite dealing with probably hundreds of students and the frustrating dance of academic bureaucracy.

It's a fantasy that broke the second Winchester glanced up and said with a hint of surprise, "Miss L/N! Come in, have a seat," he nodded towards the chair on the other side of his desk.

Relieved that he can pick you out among the sea of students from his classroom, you move forward until you reach the chair. You set your bag down on the floor and settle into the worn leather of the seat as Winchester eyes you expectantly.

"What can I do for you this afternoon?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek. "Actually, I was hoping that you could help me out with something."

"Oh, what might that be?" he furrowed his brow.

"Um..." you started. "I'm sure you noticed that I didn't do too hot on the last exam."

"Ah, I did," he said simply.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I was surprised, actually." Winchester opened up one of his desk drawers and sorted through some files before pulling out a packet you recognized as the exam you'd taken the week before. "You seem so engaged in class discussion and you've been doing well on everything else. This...this felt rushed. What happened?"

The soft expression of concern on his face only increased your shame. In all honesty, you'd wasted half the exam time away staring at him. He'd worn a red sweater over a cream colored button up that day. Then he'd rolled up the sleeves before handing out the exam papers. It felt stupid to admit that you'd been distracted by his goddamn forearms.

But you had been. You couldn't resist watching him as he'd circled the room, keeping an eye out for cheating. With his arms folded behind his back, you got the best look at the back of him. His long legs clad in khaki. Strong, tanned forearms corded with prominent veins. Shoulder blades pushed back confidently as he walked. Everything about his solid stature had your mind far, far away.

You'd been good at making sure your daydreams wouldn't get the better of you. But this time, before you knew it, Winchester was glancing down at his watch and announcing that you had fifteen minutes left for exam time. You had no choice but to rush through the rest of it, writing down answers that hardly even made sense just to fill in blanks.

Now those answers laid before you, condemning you to a low D– that dragged down your entire grade.

"I honestly couldn't tell you, Professor. I thought I studied enough but I guess not."

Though you'd attempted to laugh off his concern, Winchester obviously wasn't budging. "But these are rookie mistakes. Number fifteen for example. Where do the gods live?"

"Easy. Asgard."

"Right, but here you marked down the answer for Valhalla," he slid the paper around so you could look at the question.

Sure enough, there it was, your frantic pencil marks filling in the bubble for the incorrect answer. Damn.

"And that's just on the multiple choice questions," Winchester continued, flipping through the pages. "You barely followed any of the directions for the long answer questions. Your response to the short essay portion was a paragraph too short. And it was too unfocused."

Unfocused is right, Professor Winchester.

"I hate to say it...but I was a little disappointed."

The sting of tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. So you cleared your throat and blinked them back quickly. Voice trembling, you answered quickly, "I'm sorry, Professor. I wasn't on my game and I thought I'd pay you a visit so I could plead my case. I'm willing to do any kind of extra credit assignment. I don't care how much work it is. I'll do anything to fix my grade because I really want to do well in your class and–"

Winchester raised a hand, urging you to stop. Then he spoke, "Listen, I can see how badly you want this. So I'm going to make sure you get it. Just...let me think."

With that, Winchester rose from his seat and began to gather the papers that littered the surface of his desk. He stacked them neatly before opening a different drawer and laying them inside. After he closed the drawer, he made his way around the desk. You tried not to look at him as he made his way around the room, especially not when you felt his hand brush against the back of your chair. But you couldn't not notice when he drew the shade on his door's window and closed the blinds to his window, leaving the room dim save for the yellow light of his desk lamp.

Once he'd made his round, he returned to his chair and rolled back, leaving a massive gap between himself and the edge of his desk.

Then he did something else you didn't expect.

He patted the wood and said, "Come. Sit on my desk. Let me look at you."

You almost wavered on the direction when he cleared his throat expectantly. That brought you to your feet and compelled you to settle waveringly before him.

With his lips in a tight line, Winchester studied you. He tilted his head every few seconds, letting his eye flicker from your uncertain expression to your body. You sat up a little straighter in an attempt to satisfy his observation of you.

You weren't quite sure what he was doing, but it made you nervous; made you vulnerable in a way you weren't used to.

"I may have one extra credit opportunity that I can offer. Special. Just for you."

"Yeah? What do you want me to do?"

"Well, you can start by spreading your legs."

Your eyes went wide. "Professor Winchester, you're not–"

He cut you off quickly, "First, after office hours, you may call me Sam. Second, I'm not going to touch you. I'm simply asking you to give me a– a presentation," he decided.

"What kind of presentation?" you asked.

Your feigned innocence made the man chuckle softly. "The kind of presentation I'm sure you give in your dormitory bedroom every night."

There wasn't an ounce of jesting on his face, but still you played dumb. "I have no idea what you're referring to, Sam." His name felt foreign yet familiar on your tongue. Probably because you'd whispered it many times before in the exact scenario he'd described.

"I'd hoped you'd tell me the truth about why you were so distracted during your exam. But since you haven't been forthcoming, I guess I have to spell it out for you, haven't I?"

You swallowed hard and blinked nervously.

"You thought I wouldn't notice, did you?" he chuckles again. "It's hard not to notice when one of your students, especially one so beautiful, is practically drooling all over their table."

The scraps of flattery were evidently working on you as Sam smiled when you fiddled with your fingers in your lap as your skin got all warm and tingly. So he kept going.

"Besides, you're too intelligent to do this terribly on something you should've aced. Maybe you wanted to fail it. You wanted to get my attention, didn't you?"

"Oh, no, I wasn't trying to waste your time, I was just–"

"You weren't wasting my time. Wasting your time is continuing this pointless back and forth when you could instead be proving yourself."

"Proving myself?"

"Yes. Spread those legs...and earn your grade," he ordered.

Breathing in and out slowly, you did what you were asked. The knots in your stomach told you this was wrong. But the smile of approval that slowly grew on Sam's lips said that this was exactly what you both needed.

You'd never been more embarrassed to be wearing a skirt. One the fabric pooled around your hips, it only framed the damp patch on your underwear. Perhaps part of you had wanted something like this to happen. Because your pussy was already pulsing after simply being observed behind the cotton curtain that soaked up her anticipation.

"Very good," Sam breathed out.

"What do I do now?" you asked.

"Just...play with her. Show me what you like to do to make her happy."

You nodded, then pursed your lips as you thought. If you were going to present to him...you might as well go all out. So you shifted each of your thighs around, pulling down your underwear until your bare ass was planted on the desk and the garment was caught on one of your ankles. You lifted your left and held it out gently, the panty hanging in the air a little below Sam's face.

"Take them," you said. "Visual aid."

He smirked lazily at the offering before pulling them over your shoe, being careful not to actually touch you. Sam balled them up before bringing them to his nose and slowly breathing in the scent. You could tell he enjoyed it thoroughly as he let out a deep sigh from within his chest.

"With how wet these are...it's good to know you were prepared even for a surprise presentation. I knew there was a reason you're my favorite."

His words went straight to your cunt as a few drops of slick leaked from your hole and landed on the dark wood beneath you.

"Go on," Sam urged, gaze flickering to the drops of you on his desk. "She's waiting. And so am I."

You began to treat yourself with the same level of care as you did when you were alone. One of your hands reached up your shirt and you cupped one of your tits. You kneaded the flesh for a few seconds before focusing on the nipple, pinching it until it pebbled and poked through your shirt. The action made your breathing turn ragged.

You finally let your other hand travel south, bringing warmth to the soft skin of your thighs. Wanting better access to yourself, you pulled your leg up, resting a foot on the desk itself. Then you reclined back and let your fingers roam where they wanted.

Using two fingers, you spread your outer lips, only exposing yourself to Sam’s scrutiny even further. The cool air hitting your most vulnerable part, you shivered as goosebumps erupted across your skin. You looked up at him, gauging his approval of your performance.

“You’re doing so well already, keep going,” he encouraged, hardly concealing the arousal that clung thickly to his tone.

You took the praise with pride. It emboldened you enough to slip your two fingers between your folds to gather up some of the slick. You couldn’t help but feel mortified as you involuntarily gasped when your digits brushed slightly against your clit.

Sam let a quick puff of air out his nose. “Sensitive?”

“Mhmmm,” you whined.

“Bet you can’t even touch that pretty clit directly without crying, huh?”

You nodded.

“Then be gentle. I want you to last for me.”

You took that to mean that he didn’t want you touching yourself there yet. So instead you switched to focusing on your entrance. It wasn’t often that you went straight for penetration. Rarely did it bring the kind of relief you craved.

But you had the feeling that Sam would want to see it; to see your fingers filling yourself up and stretching you out.

With your fingers practically pruning already, you pushed one in ever so slowly. It took a second to adjust to the slight pressure, but still you began to carefully pump. The slick squelch only intensified when you slipped another one in and sped up your movements.

Though the pressure increased and built up tension in your belly, you could already tell it wasn’t going to go anywhere. You bucked your hips pathetically against your own hand, trying to get deep enough to hit your g-spot. But no matter how far you tried to probe, it was useless. Your fingers simply weren’t long enough.

Your eyes went wind, catching sight of something that most likely could reach that spot inside you. While you’d been fucking yourself, your professor had undone the button and the zipper on his pants and slipped himself out. There he sat, your panties in his hand and wrapped around the thick length of his cock. The angry red tip poked up and out of the fabric with each slow thrust. And you could already tell based on how long his strokes were that you’d most likely be able to feel him poking against your belly from inside you. The idea made you moan and throw your head back.

Sam swiftly reprimanded you, “Ah, remember your eye contact. I want you to look at me.”

Shame spread over your body. What the fuck was going on? Were you really fingering yourself on his desk right next to papers that he was surely going to return to students? Was Sam really fisting his own cock with your underwear? And were you actually enjoying this?

“Sweetheart,” Sam’s self control faltered slightly with the name. But it grabbed your attention nonetheless. “I need you to look at me. Let me look into your eyes when you make yourself come on my desk, alright?”

This was about more than fixing your grade. This was about pleasing him…by pleasing yourself. And as you returned his look, you were all in.

Under his watchful, half lidded, hazel eye you allowed yourself to focus on your aching clit which laid in wait like a pearl beneath the hood of skin covering it. Carefully, you pulled that hood back before lightly spreading some of your slick with a finger. You let the skin settle back in place over the sensitive nub before going straight to work.

You began to rub slow circles on the hood and finally properly moaned. It took only a few seconds for the muscle memory of your nightly ritual to kick in as the pleasure started to mount. Finally, all of that pressure in your core had some actual weight to it; a weight that was already beginning to roll in shallow waves over your whole being.

"There you go, sweetheart. Let me hear you loud and clear. Don't wanna miss a single sound from you," Sam groaned and you caught how the grip he had on himself tightened, how his pace quickened.

While rolling your hips against your hand, you pulled up a side of your shirt, exposing even more of yourself to him. Now he could easily see one of your tits rise and fall with your staggered breaths. He could see how the ball of fat dimpled under your fingertips as you squeezed and pulled at your hardened nipple.

Both sources of simulation had you whimpering breathlessly, "Sam, I-I'm so close– Let me come, please?"

Sam glared and asked through gritted teeth, "That's not my name. What do you call me in class?"

"Professor?"

Sam nodded darkly.

You took the cue quickly and begged helplessly, "Please, professor, please let me come–" you were cut off by the sound of your pleasure starting to push you over the edge.

Sam left you teetering, staring right over the border of this boundary. That boundary being an ethical nightmare that you had no clue how you'd navigate. But you wanted to be good for him; you craved his approval.

And thankfully, Sam gave it as he groaned, "There you go, good girl. You can come, you've got permission."

With that, you arched off the desk and burst with glorious clarity. A thin stream of your arousal drooled from your entrance as you rubbed yourself through the enormous implosions and the small aftershocks that followed. Your head was heavy with the fog of pleasure and you wanted to hang it back, give it a break.

But still, you were determined to keep your eyes on him, even as you pulled your fingers away from your trembling cunt and stuck them in your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the wrinkled digits, soaking up every bit of yourself that you could.

Any sort of professionalism Sam had been trying to maintain up until that point shattered completely when he rolled his chair forwards. Closer to you now, you looked down into his soft eyes and watched how his normally objective stare went personal; emotional. He looked at you with the kind of admiration that made your heart flutter with pride.

He took his hand, placed it on your knee, and spread your legs further. His touch was so light, so soft that you could help feeling electricity dance along your spine.

"I thought you said you wouldn't touch me?" you whispered, only a hint of a smug smile tugging at your lips.

Choosing his words as carefully as ever, he explained, "That was before I decided that you needed some of my...guidance."

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown #supernatural #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fic

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seethesin · 8 months

Text

dreams and desires

pairing: Succubus!Shane McCutcheon x F!Reader

tags/warnings: cursing, sexual content, jealousy/possessiveness, choking/breathplay, edging, begging (mdni, 18+)

a/n: as a horror fanatic, i am doing my civic duty and participating for one (1) day in the haunted hoedown. i randomized the prompts and received the following combination:

au: vampire/supernatural

dialogue: “tell me what you want me to do and i’ll do it, no matter the cost.”

trope: cursed/fuck or die

kink: jealousy/sharing/possessive

prompt: i keep seeing them in my dreams and i wake up with bruises and marks on my skin, it’s definitely just wild dreams, right?

let's see how ridiculous this gets :)

It started about a week ago.

Every night you would go to bed and have the same dream. You were standing in nothingness; a complete void of darkness swallowed you. There was no sound, scent, or feeling you could latch onto to ground yourself in reality. You were alone in a perpetual state of limbo.

Until you weren't.

Like clockwork, a pair of brilliant, emerald eyes cut through the haze like a blade. They move slowly, gleaming as they float towards you. At first, they terrified you. The otherwordly vibe they possessed used to have you backing deeper into empty space. But now? You swarm to them, as they've become your only comfort in this godforsaken place.

"Welcome back, [Y/N]." the familiar, sultry rasp is deafening in the silence.

"Hi." It comes out as a pitiful whisper as finally, the irresistible owner of those eyes emerges from the darkness.

"Hi yourself," she purrs, a smirk stretching across her sharp features. Her teeth are on display. They're jagged, like a shark's.

You want her to devour you.

She always acts first. Her hands are on you, slotted on your hips as she buries your body into hers. Hot, wet lips are dragged down your neck as her teeth mark the base of your throat. You forget how to breathe and instead, hug your arms over her shoulders. A hand snakes into her hair, your firm grip keeping her stationary.

Her chuckle makes your clit throb.

She must know that too because one of her hands withdraws from your hip, only to slip underneath the front of your pants. Her finger pads brush against your clothed cunt and you keen. You're rutting against her hand, stealing as much friction as you can get away with.

Thankfully, she lets you do what you please. In fact, she is all too happy to slide underneath your underwear and plunge two fingers into your weeping pussy. You stumble forward from the sudden intrusion, allowing her to support your body weight as her fingers piston in and out. You feel the heel of her hand grazing your clit and your head jerks back, breath sputtering. You're close.

She drags the flat of her tongue up the column of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. Her lips part and her breath fans against your cheek. Her tongue darts around the shell of your ear; you wish it was on your cunt instead.

"You'll get that tomorrow, honey."

And that's exactly when you wake up: painfully edged, completely horny, and with the sinking feeling of someone sitting on your chest. Every morning presents new bruises and marks for you to find on your body. It's getting harder to cover them up. This isn't normal.

None of this is normal.

But the mystery woman haunting your dreams—she said her name was Shane at some point—was too alluring to ignore. You didn't understand where the amalgamation of her came from; there was no one you knew or knew of that resembled her. Was she some random figment of your subconscious?

No, she felt too real for that.

Maybe you just needed to get laid. In the real world.

And that is exactly what you decide to do tonight. Dressed up in your best outfit and with your friends on speed dial, you go out clubbing. Dancing, drinking, and debauchery ensue, and in the early morning hours, you're saying your goodbyes and bringing a girl back home with you. You don't remember anything about her, but hopefully, she'll help you forget.

You like how she eats pussy. It's slow, deliberate, and patient. Writhing in bed, your thighs clench around the stranger's head as she kitten licks from your slit to your clit. Her hands knead your breasts and a moan bubbles from your throat.

"Sha—" You catch yourself. "Shit."

"This okay?" the girl garbles and you pull your knees in, pushing her face deeper into your pussy. She gets the hint and picks up the pace, twisting your nipples so that you arch off the bed. An electric current ripples through you as you cum in her mouth, panting heavily. It was good, but the rogue thought of Shane doing better runs rampant in your mind.

The girl doesn't stay the night; it's almost as if she knows her role in your fucked up experiment. Once she finally cums, the both of you dress and you walk her out. You close and lock the front door before exhaling a long, heavy sigh. The sex was good, but she wasn't Shane. You were nauseated with yourself, desperately trying to think about anything else but her as you shower. This was sick. Real or not, Shane had you in a chokehold.

You needed sleep—real sleep.

You step out of the shower, dry yourself off, and wrap the towel around yourself. Turning off the lights, you exit the bathroom before stepping into your bedroom.

"Who the fuck was that [Y/N]?"

You knew that voice.

Seated at the foot of your bed was the woman you'd seen in your dreams for the past week. Shane. Except, she didn't look like she usually did.

Far from it.

Ram horns protruded from her head and curled around her pointed ears. Fleshy, batlike wings were tucked into her back, and—what the fuck—was that... a tail swishing behind her? None of these features were visible in your dreams... besides those teeth. You must have been too busy fucking yourself on her fingers to notice.

You open and close your mouth, gaping like a fish as you try to form something coherent.

The chance to is lost. Shoving you into the wall, Shane's fingers are squeezing your throat, and her other hand pins your wrists up. Your towel drops and her tail slips around you, gathering your wrists together to free up her other hand. You don't know if the wetness between your thighs is from your shower or arousal.

"Who is she?" she seethes and you are so overstimulated that you can't even comprehend the question being asked. All you can manage is:

"You're real?"

Wrong answer. Her grip tightens and you choke. The corners of your vision begin to darken. Shane bares her teeth in a grimace and the fact that her fangs are a comfort to you is appalling. You clench your thighs together.

"Of course I'm real," she hisses. Her intense gaze drops from your face to your groin, watching your thighs shuffle. Suddenly, her chokehold loosens and you greedily suck in a much-needed breath. It soon turns into a strangled moan as her free hand shoves at your thighs and cups your cunt. Two fingers slide easily through your velvety folds before she looks back up at you.

"You didn't answer my question."

Shane uses her knuckles to pinch your clit and your hips cant forward. This was real; she was real.

"I don't remember her name," you stammer, writhing against the wall as she stares at you. At this point, you don't even remember what she looked like. Shane pauses for a moment as if she's deliberating with herself. She then nods her head, releasing the oversensitive nub before wiping your slick against your thigh. Something possesses you to speak again.

"Shane, are you jealous?" There's a smile in your voice, even when you're the one pinned between her and the wall. Her gaze snaps back up at you and she scowls. Your eyes are gleaming with the realization and you can't stop your dopey grin.

"You are so jealous."

"And you like being manhandled," she quips, causing you to clam up and flush. The pressure on your neck returns and you wheeze, shuddering against the wall. Shane watches you intently, a permanent smirk growing across her face.

"Sue me," you rasp, eliciting a genuine laugh from Shane.

Suddenly, her hand releases your throat. As you cough, you feel both of her hands now on the backs of your thighs, pushing you farther up the wall. Your pussy is at Shane's eye level and she examines your swollen lips intently.

"No human has satisfied me like you have."

You observe her as she dissociates into your cunt, noting the way her fingers bury into the corners of your inner thighs. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, slipping through the top row of her spiky teeth. Shane knows you're watching her and her green gaze flickers back to your face. Her tail slithers up your back.

"But," you begin, furrowing your brows. "You've never let me—"

"I feed off your sexual energy," she states mundanely, as if the two of you were discussing the weather. The tip of her tail slides over your shoulder and begins to wrap itself around your neck. Shane's legs shift and the tail squeezes gently around your throat. You twitch, swallowing a moan. She turns back to watch your pussy as it involuntarily contracts.

"Your pleasure is my sustenance." Shane's face sinks further between your legs as her tail is taut around your neck. "Even if I don't make you cum."

The thought of this encounter playing exactly as your dreams do elicits a frustrated but garbled growl from your lips. Your fingers are threaded in the brunette's hair, death grip tight. It served as a warning with the limited power you had in this situation; Shane was going to finish what she started.

"I like edging you, [Y/N]," she whispers, her teeth gliding across the soft skin of your thigh. "It reminds you how much you still need me."

She snickers at your impatience.

Just like now, the sentence dies on her tongue and reverberates throughout your head. Her mouth envelops your cunt and you gasp, arching into the wall. Shane is everywhere all at once. Her tongue slips through your folds, flicks your clit, and burrows itself inside of you. Her thumbs pull back your labia for better access and you buck your hips as far forward as you can. You yank Shane's head forward and her tail squeezes your neck. Your exhale comes out as a croak and you blink back tears.

"Shane," you warn hoarsely, canting forward desperately. You weren't going to last much longer at this rate.

So she completely recedes. Her lips pull away, but you can feel her breath dissipate on your pussy. The grip on your neck completely loosens; her tail is now draped across your shoulders. Gulping in a ragged breath, you groan.

"Shane!"

She doesn't react.

"Shane, please." You can't believe yourself. You were going to beg a literal demon to make you cum. If you weren't so hyperfocused on your own pleasure, you would have cackled at the absurdity.

But the begging does something to Shane. Her ears twitch and she perks up, staring at you through her lashes.

"Please what?" she simpers, watching you squirm. She bites the flesh of your pubic bone and you yelp. "Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, no matter the cost."

Your mouth goes dry.

"Please," you begin again, chest heaving. "Please don't stop; Shane, I'm so close."

"Yeah? You want to cum for me?" You nod frantically, shifting your legs as her tongue drags across the bruise already forming.

"Yes, for you." A primal switch flips inside Shane and she halts entirely. Her fingers grope your thighs and she allows you to vice her head back between them.

Only for you.

It's exactly what Shane needs to hear before devouring you entirely.

#hauntedhoedown #shane mccutcheon #shane mccutcheon imagine #shane mccutcheon x reader #the l word #the l word imagine #tlw #tlw fandom #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #wlw

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undercoverpena · 8 months

Text

the day frankie came home

frankie morales x f!reader

he’s been gone for ten days, and don’t you both know it.

wordcount: 3.2k themes: smut. p in v. fingering. cunnilingus. mirror sex. frankie talking dirty. an: this is in the same world as resurrected chances, but you don't need to read it. it does follow on from long distance - but again can be read without.

written for the #hauntedhoedown kink: mirror sex. be kind, i do not write smut, but this idea was ✨

Restfulness has become your new friend.

It encasing its hands around you, sliding its long fingers up and over your shoulders as soon as your eyes had opened. It tightening its hold when you had sipped your morning coffee—the bitterness mixing with the sweetness of your excitement.

Because he‘s on his way.

Your eyes landing on the boots you hadn’t had the heart to move.

The ones abandoned, him having promised to put them away the night he’d been packing. You purposefully choosing to leave them there, allowing yourself to live a fantasy that he hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with.

Those boots, and the hat he left behind, making you feel less lonely, even if he called, texted.

You’re just grateful that soon you wouldn’t need to play pretend.

Sweeping your eyes over the place, you gnaw at your bottom lip. Weight shifting from leg to leg, toes curling against the wooden flooring. Your heart hammering, knocking on your ribs and vibrating through your body—

Then you hear it—the sound of soon arriving.

The noticeable grumble of his vehicle, headlights splaying light through the partially opened blinds and curtains, shimmering light over the life the two of you had begun building.

It flutters through you, that excited apprehension—all quickly, more forcibly. Beating into your bones as your fingers twitch at your side—thighs pressing together—dancing the tips of your nails over the new lace and silk bought for his return.

You hadn’t known how quiet your home could be without him, until you slid open the tissue paper that housed the lingerie you’d chosen with him in mind. The purchase you’d kept a secret, burning a hole in your chest when he’d asked about your day—voice dripping, husky and sultry, down the phone as the surprise curled furiously on your tongue. Even more so when he slid the intensity up on the app—your moan falling with so much ease, you’re sure he could have made you confess to things you’d never even done. Asking you in a low whisper, have you been a good girl?

The sound of his door slamming shut makes you move—not quite a jump, but it isn’t a flinch either. Your throat is dry, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Your body.

Do you pose?

Do you lean on the sofa for him to come into the house?

It was new, this—it all foreign.

Previously, Frankie had only ever been gone a few days since the two of you had bought the house. Even then, there had been little point (or time) in building up his return with whispered phone calls and long-distance apps that turn your knickers from something practical to something that makes your thighs shake, and your toes curl.

“Bet you look as pretty as you sound, baby.” “Can’t wait for you to see for yourself, Frankie.”

You’ve dreamt of him. Waking up, hand stretched out, greeted only by cold and ensnared in disappointment. A temptation, a need—one you ignore if only to keep your promise.

But now he’s here.

Your eyes spot him, noticing the outline of his broad shoulders and loose curls in the glass of the front door. His key sliding in, catching, your heart all set to thump out your chest, tongue heavy, thick—

Then you’re swallowed by his eyes. Brown and soft—before shifting into something instantly devoured by lust as his duffel meets the ground with a thump, the door shutting with a slam.

“Fuck.”

Shifting on the spot, your fingers brush against the top of your thigh. “You like, baby?”

From the smashed photo frame, (likely) chipped key bowl and takeout menus scattered across the entryway floor, Frankie likes you in this lingerie.

His mouth is hot, slanting over yours as the roughness of the sideboard scratches against your skin.

You don’t complain—you’d never complain. Demanding him closer, desperate to have him flush against your body; wishing to feel every inch of him, against every part of you. All the things you’ve missed, the laughter, the body heat, slams into the desire that’s ebbed and flowed since he’d left.

He must be thinking the same. His pulse quick, racing—fluttering against your palm as your legs wrap around him. Fixing him here, keeping him in place. Words such as ‘Don’t leave me, don’t go anywhere ever again’ wanting to fall. Instead, they’re spilt behind his teeth, never heard by his ears.

Frankie answers you in the way he knows how.

His mouth descending, tongue swirling and sliding over lace, silk and cloth, until he’s staring up at you from his knees. Mouth latching over the fabric which covers your pussy—hungry, desperate, needy.

With a movement and a tug, he brings your legs over his shoulders. Your underwear being slid to the side, already soaked—ruined.

His eagerness fuels you, making you arch, finding leverage on the wood as you grip the edge—feeling his fingers slide the lace from your skin before he licks a long stripe up your seam. But it isn’t that which makes your toes curl, but the noise he emits when he does.

The air thinning, tightening—warmth pooling in your stomach as something loosely ties, begins to knot. You gasp, fingers finding refuge in his hair, clutching his curls as he spells something against your core.

One thing you’ve learnt, is when his tongue is on you, he can move it like it’s made of liquid. Frankie rolls and flicks—lapping up all he can as he silently begs you for more. Each movement done with the aim to crack you open—all desperate to find the prize hidden inside of you.

The one Frankie always finds.

His lips latching to your clit, sucking, fingers slipping in—spreading you as you moan.

He’s determined like that, made from grit and shaped by orders and missions. Something to prove ever on his mind. They’re set by him, expected by him—aiding and guiding—to drive him as he replaces his fingers by plunging his tongue inside you. Your head flips back, eyes open—staring at the light fixture he’d been so proud to fit, canting your hips, riding his face—

“Shit, Frankie—fuck, there, please.”

He knows.

You know he does. It’s why he’s being relentless. It’s a reward, and a thank you—both for waiting and reminding him he’s something worth waiting for.

It’s why you’re sure you can feel him smiling against you, it broadening when your vision goes white—spots in the corners, throat spraying his name against the entrance hall of your home.

You also suspect it’s why he doesn’t remove his face for several seconds, seeing what more he can coax from you.

A breather is barely given before you’re being led—more dragged—from the hallway to your bedroom.

He’s wearing a grin, all mischievous and hungry.

If you didn’t want to have him inside of you, you’d ask why. What it was he’s thinking of, let him draw it out—map it, so the two of you can make it a reality. Instead, you decide to allow him to show it to you. Let suspense build where restfulness has carved a hole in you.

You are not someone who likes the unknown, but with him, you surrender. All trusting without question, something he knows, sees. Enjoys.

A thing he’s whispered against your skin plenty of times when the two of you have caught your breaths, limbs tangled and peppered in sweat.

I love that you trust me, querida.

It's a dance now. One the two of you excel at, forever performing at the top of your game. You know to leave your need for control at the door—surrendering it to him; he knows to take the baton handed to him proudly—brow cocked and smirk evident—as he guides you to where he needs you.

He created words, pinned them to the corner of your brain—a place never blown away by pleasure or need. Just in case, he had said, mouth brushing over your neck. Want you to always feel safe, Cariño.

The word had only been whispered once—a while ago. You’d watched how his act went, dissolved, vanished, pulling you close and providing you all the comfort he could give as you apologised and provided whispered explanations.

It’s why it was easy to give him control, you knew you could trust him—with your heart, body and soul.

He pulls you back, demanding your entire attention—likely realising he’s lost you to your come-down and your thoughts. His fingers under your chin, forehead pressing to yours. “Te he extrañado, baby.”

“Missed you more, Frankie.”

If it sounds childish, you don’t care. Lips catching him, ghosting over his, wearing a giddy smirk as the back of your knees press against the mattress, folding with all the ease he needs.

There’s a dull ache blooming—even after your orgasm. It weaves with the warmth still thrumming in your thighs from his antics in the living room. This time, you’re admiring him from below him. How his hand grasps the back of his t-shirt before it’s rid from his body in one swift movement, revealing him, displaying how broad he is—all soft, toned, golden and carved.

You steal his earlier sentiment, letting ‘fuck’ roll from your swollen lips in a sharp puff—watching his lips slide into his cheek, burying itself in dimples and cockiness.

Then he’s following you down, encasing you, locking you between his forearms as his mouth slants over yours. The taste of you is evident, all sweet on his tongue as you reach for him, palm against his hardened cock, earning a groan, a vibration that travels through your tongue to your soul.

Frankie is all heat, the weight pressing down on you in a way you hadn’t known you’d craved until it was heavy on you. Pinned, nowhere to go—not wanting to be anywhere but here, anyway.

That is, until your hand shifts, rising up, sliding to the place that keeps him from you freely. You’ve become a seasoned pro at belts, one-handed—able to free him with relative ease when he isn’t able to aid you. When opportunities have forced you to be discreet and quick, those stolen moments that have prepared you for moments such as this.

He’s taking pity on you today—all desperate and hungry in his movements to shove his jeans down, before you feel him against your thigh. His fingers lift your chin to his face.

“I’ve got an idea, baby.”

His voice honey, dripping. Sultry.

“I wanna see you. All of you.”

Your brows lift, eyes widening—mouth finding him as he captures and steals any momentary protests. As if you’d have any.

Least of all, when he’s rocking his hips against you, alleviating pressure, so hard against you that you want to wrap your fingers around him. Let him fuck your fist, spill against your stomach and forearm—coat you in him, leave you sticky and content.

Frankie has other ideas.

Seemingly having tuned in, radioed into your mind—he takes your wrists, pulling them up, pinning them with one of his.

“Thought we can show that mirror you bought a thing or two,” he continues, dropping his mouth, latching it to your jaw, your fingers curling. “The one from Amazon—can put it at the bottom of the bed.”

Your response is embedded in a depraved noise, his weight having shifted, his hips rolling—the head of his cock rubbing against the lace between your thighs.

He’s waiting, staring. Nervousness set to bloom across his features, ridden only by your smirk, doused by your nod.

“Go fetch it, Frankie.”

He makes you stand before it as soon as it’s in place. Your eyes try not to linger or fixate—not wanting to lose the confidence you mustered to welcome him the way you did.

Because a part of you wants to hide, curl away, now that you’re bare.

Your underwear is lost, discarded in some darkened corner of the bedroom. Frankie hadn’t ripped it from you, he’d slid it from you. Unwrapped you from head to toe like you were a gift—carefully peeling, delicately removing, kissing along your exposed skin before throwing it to the side.

“Look how pretty you are, baby.”

You don’t look at yourself, even under his praise. You look at him. Watch how he drags his eyes up and down your frame, drinking you, hungrily swallowing the view he had in front of him.

His mouth latches to your neck, before his cheek is next to yours. “Gonna fuck you with my fingers, and you’re gonna watch, aren’t you, baby?”

It’s hard not to hold his stare, silently accepting. Your hand moves, grasping for him, only to feel one of his slide down your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake, as he moves, shifts, until your palm is on the wall next to the mirror.

“Eyes on your face or your pussy, baby. Your choice.”

You opt for the latter. Watching, yet feeling, his arm snaking, sliding, before he teases two of his calloused pads over your slick folds. Teasing, taunting. Teeth nipping at your neck as he buries them in you.

His name falls, slicing through the air as your eyes lift to his face. The look of bliss smothered across every inch of it. Before you drop your gaze again—wanting to be good, needing to be. His fingers fucking into you–soaking them, him, his palm collecting your slick.

“Keep your eyes open.” Flipping your lashes up, you swallow. Finding purpose on his face. “There she is, fucking look at the mess you’re making, baby.”

“Frankie…”

“I know,” he croons, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Such a good girl letting me fuck her with my fingers.”

You shudder as his thumb catches your clit, eyes struggling to remain open—fixed, watching him as he observes you. The corners of your sight blurring, engulfing in tears that threaten to spill from how good he treats you, how kind he is, how—

“Want you to fuck me, Frankie.”

He groans, hard and low, all deep. Vibrating through his chest—through your back—as a hand remains on your hip.

“Want you to fill me, baby,” you whine, latching your eyes onto him. “Need you. Please.”

For a moment, you don’t think he hears you. But then he stops. Suddenly empty, his tongue swirling over his fingers before his mouth is on yours, lips consuming you, tongue kissing the back of your teeth. Leading you, moving you, until he’s nudging your legs up, fabric grazing skin, until you’re on your knees at the foot of your bed.

The mattress groans as he joins you—placed right behind you, leaning back on his knees. He envelops you from behind, looking every bit like he’s been crafted from an imagination.

His hair is all wild, skin all flushed—all of him looking as handsome as ever, his eyes sweeping up and down you through the mirror.

Your eyes drop to your waist, finding his fingers—long and stretched—over your hip. Can see it, the evidence of your earlier spend glistening between your thighs—the low light from the hallway casting a glow, all amber and delicate over the two of you.

“Anyone tell you that you’re beautiful,” he whispers smoothly.

Guiding you to tilt at the hips, before rubbing the head of his cock through your folds.

“You—mainly.”

He smiles, all drowsy and heart-stuttering. “Let me tell you again,” he says, lining himself, lifting his hips. “You’re beautiful.”

You sink down on the last syllable. Taking him inch by inch—doing it so well—right to the hilt. It’s all you’ve thought about—him filling you. Him being buried so deep inside of you that you feel him for days. You crave m bruises and soreness, just so in the brief moment between sleep and awake you knew he was really here, home.

Because you imagine tonight you’re going to sleep well.

His teeth running along your shoulder, nipping at your skin. Frankie grunts as you lift, a drawn-out hiss greeting your ear as you sink back down, taking all of him again.

You like how your name sounds falling from his lips, how he presses it into your skin, stamping it there. A needier murmur of your name, a silent plea.

Then he begins to move.

Rocking into you, dragging his cock in and out as a strangled cry leaves your mouth. Because it wasn’t a plea, it was an announcement—a courteous heads up.

You meet his stare in the mirror, heat flooding over you, before you drop your eyes to where you’re connected.

It’s a sight to watch. Because Frankie is big, thick. He has always made you feel full, stuffed—practically spaceless—just like he is now. Clutching you close, skin rippling as he fucks into you and steals the air from your lungs as he picks up his pace, finding a new rhythm.

“Frankie—fuck, baby.”

He makes more of your hisses and whimpers fall, each one painting the room, dousing it in what he’s doing to you—how good he’s making you feel. His hand rising, fingers spreading. Calloused pads dancing right across your abdomen, likely feeling your muscles contract under his palm as you meet him with all you have.

Then, your attention is drawn to his other hand. The one which cups your breast, and pinches your nipple between index and thumb—making you cry out his name. Only to be rewarded by the sight of his lips having spread into his cheek, hungrily staring at you—before his palm finds a home on the base of your neck.

“Made for me. Dios mío, your pussy is tight, querida. So perfect. Fuck.”

Your lashes flutter, squeezing him as he finds that spongy spot that makes your knees feel unsteady, and licks heat up your spine.

“Y’look so good takin’ me. Don’t you? You see it?”

You do, you see. Nodding dumbly. All uncoordinated as your arm loops around the back of his neck, hips trying to maintain his rhythm as he whispers more into your ear. His eyes on you, staring like you’re a gift from the heavens. His eyes all blown and pupils swallowed by his irises—and you’re not sure he’s ever looked so good.

“So full, Frankie.”

His eyes lift from where the two of you are conjoined to your face, finger brushing, removing the tear from your cheek—the one caused by him and how good he fucks you.

“I lo–, fuck, ‘love you,” you cry.

Shifting his hips, you’re suddenly breathless, fingers tightening ever so slightly on the base of your neck. Just enough to make your lungs burn from how much you’re gasping at the new angle—whimpers falling like glitter, all shimmering—as your hand grips the one over your abdomen. Nails bedding down, half-moons left in his skin.

Because you need to come. Need to crash or fall, descend or ascend.

“Please, baby. There, right—there. Please, ple—“

You’re not sure if the last plea escapes. It’s muffled. Robbed. It rips through you, slowly—torturously. It beginning somewhere deep, snarling and fuelled with white-hot flames before it splits through barrier after barrier, curling toes and making you tremble before your body is even aware of the intensity of it.

It’s liquid. You’re liquid. All bursting, nerves sparking, all-electric and gasoline as your pleasure engulfs you—sound gone, sight gone. Senses ticked off one by one as your skin goes hot, feeling him still, all overstimulated and trembling against him as you hear murmurs of him begging, pleading against your skin.

The first thing your eyes are able to decipher between the spots is him. Mouth parted in a silent moan, brows furrowed, body sheened with sweat as his muscles flex as he grips you tight. Then you hear it—the way your name curls from his tongue, greets your ear with both a kiss and a punch, his hips stuttering, white ropes coating your walls as you feel yourself become boneless—weightless.

Time slows, barely ticks. Blinking, seeing—for the smallest of moments—what it was he was seeing in the mirror as you stare at him, watching him lose himself. All because of you.

Then, the moment shifts—finding yourself slowly being laid down, face turned, finding him—finding soft brown eyes and his sloped nose. That kind smile and flushed skin, and you break a bit differently than moments before when his lips lazily brush over yours—little sniffles, eyes filling with tears as you watch his eyes widen.

Because he’s here, he’s home.

No waiting for a phone call, no need to make do with a toy he can control. He’s just here, staring at you, body so close you can feel the heat rolling from him.

More so, when a tear escapes. Him grasping, pulling you close—an answer needed, it hanging on the tip of his tongue, but you answer before he says it:

“I really love you, Frankie.”

“Oh, querida,” he whispers into your hairline, your arms wrapping around his back as best as you can. “I love you too.”

as always, thank you to G for telling me I can do this. to A for telling me how hot this is and to @psychedelic-ink for giving me a mini-pep talk that I can totally do this - and here we have it 🧡

#hauntedhoedown #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #francisco morales smut #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut

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ficsilike-reblogged · 8 months

Text

A Lonely Heaven

Summary: The five times Robert gave you something and the one time he took. Pairing: Soft Dark!Robert Fischer/F!Reader Word Count: 7.2k A/N: Written for Day Three’s prompt from the Haunted Hoedown Challenge Hosted by inklore and psychedelic-ink. Today’s prompt was “inspired by your favorite Lana del Rey song + yandere.” The song I chose was “Say Yes to Heaven.” I hope you enjoy! Warnings: Gaslighting, isolation, drugging, kidnapping, general unhinged behavior, smut (unprotected sex, female receiving oral, fingering), reader calls him Bobby for reasons, minor character death (not described) ABSOLUTELY NO MINORS ALLOWED

Robert just needed a minute. Just a minute to breathe before the next meeting with men and women he’d rather never see again. But he was heir to the empire. He had a reputation to uphold and a company to run.

But still, he just needed a moment.

He slipped into the blessedly empty break room just down the hall and stared at the coffee maker for a moment. He didn’t need coffee. He didn’t need anything that the break room could provide except silence-

“Hey, I’m sorry, can I get to the coffee? If I don’t get my boss a refill, I’m fired.”

Robert turned at the sound of soft if not frazzled voice and saw you. He expected to see you flinch at the sight of him before apologizing—most people did when they spotted him. But not you. There wasn’t an ounce of recognition on your face.

You didn’t know who he was.

Robert stepped out of the way with an apology of his own and you were quick to fill up an abnormally large coffee cup with a faded company logo on the side. You also dumped three things of creamer into it and half a packet—exactly—of sugar. Robert must have been staring because you glanced at him over your shoulder with a small smile. “First day?”

“No. But I don’t think I’ve been in this particular break room before.” It was technically not a lie. He only knew of the room’s existence because he’d been shuffled by it each time he had a meeting in the conference room down the hall. He didn’t have to come in here. People brought him coffee. He didn’t get it himself.

You nodded. “I prefer the one on 12. They have better snacks.” You paused, drumming your fingers against the mug. “You look a little out of it. You okay?”

That was probably the first time this year that someone had asked about him. It was just a simple thing, really. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your head cocked to the side, like you didn’t believe him but you still held your hand out to him with an offer of your name. Despite the coffee you held, your hand was cold as Robert took it. “I’m Robert.”

Your answering smile twisted behind his ribs. “Anyone ever call you ‘Bobby?’”

A sharp laugh punched out of him and he watched your smile widen. “No. No, never.”

“Well, if I ever see you again, we’ll have to try it out.” Again, you drummed your fingers on the mug. “It was nice to meet you. I hope your day gets better.” Then you were gone and Robert watched your hips sway until you disappeared, unknowingly taking his heart with you.

**1**

You hadn’t been the most sociable person when you took the job at Fischer Morrow. Actually, you could count the friends you’d made on two pathetic fingers and even then you knew they were hardly more than casual acquaintances. Moving to Australia was supposed to be a new start but instead it was the loneliness you had been running from compounded. Sure, you were paid decently. Your apartment was fine. But your boss was a dick and you weren’t even using your degree to fetch coffee and answer a phone.

God, you were lonely.

You picked at your sandwich as you sat in the park just on the opposite side of the street from Fischer Morrow’s building. There was a couple playing with their son under the shade of the tree. There was a small gaggle of women from the accounting department walking together around the perimeter, having traded their sensible heels for trainers. Then there was a small group of teenagers, probably skipping school, a little further into the park. They all looked happy and you continued to pick at your sandwich until it was just a mangle of bread, tomato, and cheese.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Your head snapped to the side to see Robert standing at the edge of the bench you occupied, holding a small paper bag. “O-of course! Please do!” You hadn’t seen him in weeks. Of course, it was an absurdly large building with a matching number of employees. It shouldn’t have been surprising that you didn’t see him again. But you had kept his pretty blue eyes and sharp features in the back of your mind anyway. Your lonely heart leapt when he settled beside you.

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he started, pulling a sandwich of his own from the bag.

“They keep me busy. And you? Did you find the good snacks on twelve?” You winced as soon as you asked. Your conversation skills were abysmal. It was honestly surprising that he wanted to sit anywhere near you after your awkward conversation weeks prior but you weren’t about to tell him to go away.

He nodded with a smile. “Yeah, thanks for the tip.”

You smiled, too, but it felt a little stilted and you turned your attention back to your mangled sandwich.

“You’re in IT, aren’t you?”

Your fingers stalled their shredding and you glanced at Robert for a moment. “What gave it away? Most people think I’m in Logistics.”

Robert shrugged but his smile remained. “Do you like what you do?”

You snorted and popped a bit of your sandwich into your mouth. “I got this job because I have a masters degree in my field and I’m fetching coffee and answering phones like a secretary. But it’s fine. It pays the bills.” You grimaced as soon as you finished. You never knew how to say the right thing; it was why you preferred staying quiet. You should know better than to sound ungrateful. “But, um, what about you? Do you like what you do?”

“It pays the bills.”

“What department are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Robert’s sandwich froze just in front of his mouth before he cleared his throat. “I work for the Board.” He then quickly stuffed his sandwich into his mouth.

“Oh, you poor soul. That’s got to be so stressful. No wonder you looked so out of it when we met.” Then it was your turn to freeze again. “That was so rude, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, no it’s all right. It isn’t great, you’re right. But I’m thankful for it anyway.” He was quiet again as he took another bite and you felt a tiny bit of tension slip from your shoulders. Maybe he was as lonely as you were. “Who’s your supervisor?”

“It’s Reynolds. Why?”

“No reason. He’s the guy with the,” he waved a hand at his neck, “right?”

“Neckbeard. Yeah. That’s him. Very particular about his coffee.”

Robert hummed but didn’t say anything else for a stretched moment. Perhaps he liked the quiet like you, too. “You think they’re skipping class?” He asked, tipping his head toward the teenagers.

You laughed. A big belly laugh. That wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. “Oh, definitely.” And the conversation was easier from that point on. You spoke about your favorite cafe downtown and he suggested a running path he was fond of along the coast after you mentioned that your “favorite” treadmill at your gym broke. Was it earth shattering conversation? No. But it lessened the ache in your chest.

As you packed up your lunches, noting the time and how your lunch hour was nearing its end, Robert turned to you with a small smile on his face. “You know, last time we talked you said something to me.”

You squinted at him, as if that would help you remember, and it did, washing over you with a fresh mortification. “Oh no.”

“I was hoping you’d actually try it out. See if I like it.”

You were about to broil in your skin. You were sure of it. “It was a joke.” (It wasn’t.)

Robert’s obscenely blue eyes didn’t leave your face and he smiled. “Try it anyway.”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment before saying, “thank you for spending lunch with me, Bobby.”

His smile widened a fraction. “I think I like it.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it, if we see each other again.”

His head tilted to the side just the slightest bit and the new angle had the sharp planes of his cheeks growing dark shadows. “We will.” It sounded like a promise before you parted ways as you neared the lobby.

You had a smile on your face for the rest of the day, even when Reynolds berated you about putting too much sugar in his coffee. You didn’t care. Why? Because maybe you made a friend.

Your smile only faltered when you were called into HR the following morning. Had you done something wrong? Had Reynolds really reported you for getting his coffee wrong? But the smile came roaring back when the stern looking man on the other side of the desk said, “Reynolds is no longer with Fischer Morrow. I’m officially offering you his position. We can discuss salary and benefits, of course. And…”

The rest of the conversation was a dull roar in your ears. Of course you would take the position. You couldn’t wait to tell Bobby.

**2**

“I like the new office.”

You leaned to the side, tearing your gaze away from your computer screen, just enough to see Bobby walk into your office with something tucked beneath his arm. You were quick to stand and welcome him in before glancing at the clock and gasping. “It is nearly midnight! What’re you still doing here?”

His dark brow arched as he moved you both further into your office with a hand on your lower back. “I could ask you the same thing, you know.”

You chuckled nervously, wiping a hand over your mouth. “Um, well, with the reshuffling of the department, some of the tickets fell through the cracks. I’m just making sure no one down here gets in trouble right when I’ve taken this job. Wouldn’t be a good look.” You leaned against the leather couch as he looked around your office. It was nice, truly. You could see your park out of the window and you had enough room to hang a white board so you could work through problems on your own, too. But it had taken a week for you to get moved in after your impromptu promotion and were still getting settled. It was surprising that Bobby knew about your new office at all but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he learned about it from the board meetings he had to sit in on.

He held out what was in his hand and you gasped when you realized that it was a bottle of exceedingly expensive champagne. “It is just a little something to say congratulations on the promotion.”

That single bottle could pay for several months of your rent. “Oh, this is too much, I couldn’t-”

But he still pushed it into your grasp with a shake of his head. “I insist. You’ve more than earned it and you’re obviously taking your new duties seriously.”

You turned the heavy bottle over in your hand as you bit your lip. “Well, if you insist.”

“I do,” he said with another smile.

“Then I must insist that you share a glass with me. Deal?”

There was something in Robert’s gaze that had you nearly shivering. It was too heated, too calculating. But as soon as you saw it, it was gone and he was smiling again. “Deal.”

You handed the bottle back to him. “Can you open it for me? I’ll grab glasses from the break room.”

You heard the pop of the bottle as you hurried down the hall. When you found no clean glasses, you settled for two mugs and hoped that you wouldn’t offend him with the choice. And it seemed that your trepidation was unfounded because he laughed as he spotted them and then poured you both a large serving. He held out his mug toward you. “Cheers, to you and your new job.”

“Cheers!” You clinked your mug against his with a laugh before taking a sip. The champagne tasted expensive and bubbled all the way down. You had to “Thank you so much. This was really kind of you, Bobby.”

He waved it away. “I’m sorry I didn’t manage to swing by earlier.”

“No need to apologize,” you said after taking another sip. “I know the big wigs keep you busy. I think you’re the only person who has actually congratulated me, anyway. So, this means a lot. Thank you, truly.”

He looked at you over the edge of his mug as he took a sip, too. “Well, they don’t know what they’re missing.”

You bit your lip–a terrible habit you were only now realizing how often you did it around him. “I kinda like it just being us anyway. I get nervous around too many people.”

“I don’t mind not sharing you.”

You laughed.

**3**

It was a little strange, how long it took you to realize that you only saw Bobby while you were alone at work. It was like he only appeared when everyone else was gone for the day or you were in your little corner of the park for lunch. You didn’t mind it, really. But your friendship seemed tinged with secrecy. You followed his lead and kept the details to a minimum when anyone asked about who you were having lunch with or who your late night meetings were with. “Oh, just my friend Bobby.” You also tried to ignore that you didn’t know many things about him, including his last name. You weren’t about to ask though, afraid that you’d ask something he didn’t want to divulge and he’d leave you alone.

You sent a smile to your assistant from across the room when she locked eyes with you. She waved when you raised your half-filled champagne flute in her direction, silently telling her to enjoy the holiday party. She was new and lovely and so helpful. She was also overjoyed when you actually let her help with the work your department handled. She also teased you goodnaturedly whenever you would go have lunch with Bobby at the park and asked her to hold your calls for the hour. “Can’t hide him from me forever, you know. I’ll figure out who this man is!”

You glanced down at your watch. It was a quarter to eight. You’d been here for a solid two hours and talked to half a dozen people who really only wanted to double check that their tickets would be resolved before Morning. It was fine–it seemed like most everyone still pretended you didn’t exist. Maybe they’d heard about how awkward you were, or they were wagering about how you got Reynolds’ job. Whatever. At least you got to attend the party–the last time you attempted to do so, Reynolds had you running around the city to grab the gifts he “forgot” to pick up after ordering so he could give them to the rest of the IT team before the end of the party (you did not receive one).

Staying until nine would be acceptable, right? You showed your face, thanked the catering team for their hard work, and watched the party slowly get rowdier at the hours trickled by. Then, you could be asleep before 10 and finally try that running route Bobby mentioned tomorrow morning.

Solid plan, right?

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

You turned, already smiling, to see Robert leaning against one of the pillars of the hotel’s ballroom, nearly hidden in shadow. “I didn’t think you’d be attending. I thought the big wigs would be having their own party.”

“They are,” he said with a nod. “I escaped.”

You frowned at that, anxiety gnawing at your ribs. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Bobby.”

His hand gently skirted up your arm and you tried to ignore how he left goosebumps in his wake as his long fingers pressed like firebrands into your skin. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

This was a new habit of his: touching you. You never minded. You had gone so long without more than a friendly pat to the shoulder or a brief handshake that you nearly cried the first time you felt Robert’s fingers trailing along your spine on the bench you still shared at lunch. “Promise?”

“I swear.” His blue eyes flashed with that strange gleam again–after all these weeks you still couldn’t decipher it. “But, I do have ulterior motives.”

“Oh?”

“I got you a present.”

Your grip immediately tightened on your champagne. Shit. “I-I didn’t know we were going to exchange gifts. I-”

“I am not expecting anything in return,” he said, thumb swiping against your arm with a smile. “I just saw it and thought of you.”

“Bobby. You know I’m going to have to take you to lunch or something as a thank you and then still give you a present. I feel awful.”

His grip tightened just a fraction as he shook his head. “Don’t. I actually get more joy out of giving gifts than receiving them.”

“Well, that’s too bad because I’m the same. You’re not getting out of this.”

“We can debate this later.” He pulled the flute from your hand and drained it before grimacing as you laughed. “The stuff I got you was much better. C’mon, I don’t want everyone else to see it.” He then set the empty glass on the nearest table and tangled your fingers together to lead you out of the ballroom and into one of the unlit side rooms. It was filled with folded tables and rows of unused banquet chairs but you could still hear the music coming through the doors. He only let go of your hand when he reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a velvet box with a distinctive HW logo on the lid.

“Bobby…” There was no way you could afford something like that. How were you supposed to reciprocate?

“Open it.” He gently pushed it into your hand and nodded with a smile when you glanced at him again.

With shaking fingers, you did and gasped when you saw the necklace carefully draped across the velvet padding. On a delicate platinum chain was a diamond pendant. Well, it was several diamonds set to look like a flower. It was the most beautiful necklace you’ve ever seen and probably the most expensive you’ve ever held. “I don’t…I don’t know if I can accept this.”

Robert stepped closer, expensive shoes knocking into yours. His cologne, leather and musk and money, slowly filled your every breath as his hands once again found your arms. “You being in my life has been my lone bright spot in a long time. This necklace is just a fraction of what I owe you, all right?”

“You don’t owe me anything, Bobby. I should actually be thanking you. You have been my truest friend. I don’t know what I would do without you.” You were telling the truth–he was your closest friend. Your only friend, if you were being completely honest with yourself. “This is-this is still too much.”

You tried to hand it back but he only pulled the necklace from its hooks and swept around to stand at your back. In one fluid motion, he was fastening it around your neck and his fingers trailed down your arms. “It suits you.”

You looked down at the necklace and a shaky sigh pushed through you. “Fine. You win this round.” When you turned to look at him, you were rewarded with another one of his smiles. “Don’t think I won’t try to pay you back.”

A new song started, something slow and soft, and Robert turned his head to hear it better for a moment before looking at you again. “Well, as a start, would you like to dance with me?”

“Here?” You asked, a giggle coloring your tone.

“Yeah. Just us.” He held out a hand, long fingers angled toward you.

This felt like a step toward something new. Something different than the quiet friendship you’d carefully protected. It would be a lie to say that you hadn’t thought of him in that way–he was beautiful. And kind to you. And funny. So, you put your hand in his and laughed as he hauled you close. His other arm wrapped tightly around your back as he held your hand close to his chest and started to lead you in a dance that had your heart racing despite the slow movements.

Without even thinking, your other hand inched its way up his arm to settle at the nape of his neck and your fingers absentmindedly pushed through his hair. “Thank you, Bobby. For everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out. I promise.”

**4**

This was embarrassing.

So embarrassing.

How did you not connect the dots? Your Bobby was Robert fucking Fischer. Successor to the Fischer Morrow empire. You had been palling around with a billionaire heir apparent. You had complained about how the board was fucking up to him. You had said that you couldn’t imagine being a Fischer because, “it just seems miserable.” You had literally said you felt bad for Maurice’s son because “that old man seems like an asshole.”

Wonderful.

Fantastic.

You wanted to walk out into the ocean and swim to the nearest uninhabited island to escape your shame. But you couldn’t because you were watching Robert give a speech to the entirety of Fischer Morrow about the future of the company because his father’s health had taken a sharp decline in the last handful of weeks. You had tucked yourself into the back of the assembled crowd, wishing you had just watched it online in your office instead. How could you miss it? His suits were tailored and designer. He was always perfectly put together. You had once vaguely recognized the Hermès logo on his watch and had thought it had been a holiday gift from the board.

He’d probably bought it on a whim–the tens of thousands it cost wasn’t even a drop in the bucket to him.

Robert finished his speech and nodded his head in response to the applause he earned before stepping away from the podium so CFO could take over, giving further explanation to the expansion planned for Fischer Morrow. You didn’t hear any of it. You were too focused on Robert moving at the edges of the crowd.

Right toward you.

Your fingers fiddled mindlessly with the diamond pendant around your throat. You had worn it every day since he had given it to you. You should have known better.

Before you could even think to do anything at all, Robert’s fingers were circling around your wrist and you were being pulled out of the room. He was quiet as he led you into an empty conference room and shut the door with a soft snap as soon as you were inside.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, tugging your arm out of his grip and folding your arms over your stomach protectively. “I’m sorry I said all those things.”

“What?” His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“All…all the things I said about the company, about your father-”

“They needed to be said. I like that you felt comfortable enough to say that to me.”

You scrubbed a hand over your mouth as you started to pace around the table, a million and one thoughts racing through your brain and all of them landed on one conclusion. “Was this just some game? To see what the little worker bee thought of the hive?”

A short breath pushed out of him as he rounded the conference table and grabbed at your hands again to pull you to a stop. Your poor heart hiccuped when he laced your fingers together. “It was never a game. I sought you out because you treated me like I was my own person instead of someone who only stood in my father’s shadow. You saw me, not my last name.”

“Robert-”

His grip tightened, near desperate. “No. No, I’m Bobby to you, remember?”

“I never would have called you that if I had known who you are.” The words were small, as small as you felt in his presence now. But still, you couldn’t pull away from him.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. I’m still your Bobby. Nothing’s changed.” His voice was soft. Almost pleading. It cracked at something behind your ribs you had tried to ignore for the sake of the friendship.

“Everything’s changed! You are so far up the corporate ladder above me I shouldn’t even be on your radar.” You finally pulled your hands from his and hated the look in his clear blue eyes. It was unbidden hurt. But your mind jumped to something else. “You had Reynolds fired.”

Robert’s answering silence was answer enough.

“God. I didn’t even earn this position did I? You just felt bad for the stupid, lonely girl in the park-”

Robert was on you in a flash, crowding you against the table without even needing to touch you. “You earned it. I looked into your work history. I saw your credentials. Reynolds knew you were better suited to his job and stepped all over you because of it. I only gave you what you deserved.”

“So, you admit it-”

“I admit that you were better suited. I admit that your department is better for it, too. I admit that I did it because I just wanted to see you smile again.”

Your next breath stalled in your throat and you hated that you felt your chin wobble. What was he saying? “Robert-”

“And it wasn’t pity. It was selfish of me. I wanted to see you smile. I wanted to give you something no one else could. So I did.” Slowly, so slowly, his hands skirted a familiar path up your arms until he was cupping the back of your head and pressing the pads of his thumbs beneath the hinge of your jaw. You could feel each breath he took against the sensitive skin of your lips. “I want to give you everything because you have given me more than I could ever repay. You were lonely. So was I. And we found each other, doesn’t that still matter?”

“I-”

“Let me be your Bobby again. Nothing’s changed, I promise.”

You searched his perfect blue eyes and wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that he felt what you did. That it was okay to feel this, that it was okay to keep him tucked in the confines of your heart where he had burrowed. “You know this has changed, Bobby.” You watched his shoulders sag in relief at the sound of the nickname. “You know it.”

He agreed, nodding just once. “I can’t hide it anymore. You’re right. But I’m still the man sitting next to you on the bench. I’m still sipping champagne out of mugs with you at midnight. I’m still dancing with you in empty rooms. And I’m hoping all that I am, all the charade and everything behind it, is enough for you. I am asking you to have me because of it all, in spite of it all.”

“What will I be to you?” You asked, your voice little more than a whisper.

Robert paused and you watched his pupils start to blow, black eating blue. “You’d be mine.” And then he was kissing you, plush mouth pressing against yours and stealing your next breath. Your hands scrambled to find purchase in the fine fabric of his suit jacket as he hauled you closer, like he was trying to devour you.

You would happily let him.

When he pressed at the seam of your lips, you readily gave in and let him lick into your mouth, searching and wanting. One of his hands fell to your hip as he swallowed a whine building in your throat and he hauled you onto the edge of the table, knocking your legs apart so he could slot himself between them, like he’d always meant to be there.

Maybe he was. Maybe this was inevitable. It certainly felt like it.

Your shaking hands pushed at his jacket and he hurriedly shrugged it off, never moving his mouth from yours and not caring when it hit the floor. “So fucking perfect,” he murmured against your kiss-bitten lips. “And all mine.”

“And you’re mine,” you whispered in return, tugging at his tie next.

A sharp knock at the door halted your next breath. Robert froze, too, lips still pressed to yours.

“Mister Fischer, you’re needed upstairs,” came a stressed, tinny from the other side.

Then you were giggling against him, feeling like a teenager, and you moved to press your face to his shoulder to try to quiet the noise. But then he was laughing, too, and stealing another kiss. “Let’s get out of here.”

**5**

Robert’s father was dying.

There was no more denying it. You watched Robert waffle between heartbreak and resignation and tried to help him through it all, even though what he was feeling was foreign to you. You’d been alone your entire life, growing up at an overrun group home for kids who couldn’t find a foster family to take them and then shuffling from empty dorm room to empty apartment after aging out. But still, you let him burrow his head into your chest when he needed just the world to be quiet. It had been only a handful of weeks since he’d kissed you, asking you to take him for all that he was, but it felt like you had been with him for years, settling into a domestic routine that felt like something out of a romance novel. Something you had only ever wished you could have. You just wished you could ease the ache he was fighting.

You were in his office, the rest of the building having long been deserted at the end of the work day, pushing your fingers through his hair as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Tell me what you need,” you murmured.

“I just need you.” His words vibrated as he spoke them into the fabric of your shirt.

“Bobby,” you started, pressing your hands beneath his chin so he looked up at you. “I am always going to be here, okay? But let me lighten your load. Want me to grab dinner so we can try to knock out some of that paperwork Browning saddled you with?” You smoothed your finger over one of his eyebrows and watched his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

“He means well. He wants me to really know what I’m doing before I officially take the reins.”

“I think he’s being lazy and then schmoozing the rest of the board while you’re in here, working your fingers to the bone,” you said with a smile to try to lessen the blow because you knew how much his ‘uncle’ Peter meant to him. You, however, thought he was a snake.

Robert was quiet as he looked up at you and you felt him squeeze you a little tighter before he stood and pressed a firm kiss to your mouth. “I have a better idea.”

“What could possibly be better than shitty takeout and monotonous paperwork?” You teased, earning a pinch to your side.

“How about you, me, and a bottle of that champagne you like and we just lock ourselves away at my house for the weekend?”

Your agreement was on the tip of your tongue. You could feel it. But he’d played this card before. “You’re going to say ‘after I let you finish this paperwork,’ aren’t you?”

His smile was tired as he danced his fingers down your spine. “God, you’re perfect.”

“You’re not getting out of this, Bobby. Let me help you.” The next noise out of you was an undignified squeak as he grabbed at your hips and hoisted you onto the top of his desk. “What’re you doing?”

“Convincing you to let me do my work.”

“It is Browning’s wor-” Your words halted when his warm hands slipped beneath the hem of your skirt and deftly pushed it up to your waist, exposing your silk stockings and lace garter belt. “You’re fighting dirty.”

Robert only smirked and sank back to his knees as he pulled your underwear down in one swift motion. He licked a bold stripe up your folds that had your head immediately tilting back with a gasp. Again and again, he did it until he closed his warm, wet mouth around your clit and sucked until you were keening, sinking your fingers into his hair again. He always knew just how to turn your spine to jelly with a few flicks of his tongue but his real talent was-

“Oh my god!”

Robert sank his teeth into the dough of your thigh as his long fingers slid into your wet heat and easily found that spot inside you that had sparks bursting behind your eyes. If your mind was capable of doing more than pleading pleasepleasepleaseBobbyplease, you may have felt his lips press a smile into your thigh before his mouth descended on you again, working in tandem with his excruciatingly wonderful fingers.

Your thighs clamped around his head but Robert was undeterred and kept licking and sucking and pushing. Wet, sloppy noises filled the air, punctuated by your whimpers and pleas, until you were crying out with your abrupt release and your entire body felt like you’d been dipped in molten heat that fizzled down to your fingers. You collapsed onto the desk in a heap, thighs sagging open as Robert gave a few last kitten licks to your clit until you pushed him away with a whine. When he pulled his fingers out, you could feel your slick puddling below you and you spotted a damp spot on the cuff of his shirt. Damn.

Robert, however, was unfazed and licked his fingers clean as you tried and failed to catch your breath.

“I know just how to get you to cooperate.” His fingers danced over your thighs, still shaking with aftershocks. “Look at you now. All soft and compliant.”

“Not my fault,” you said between labored breaths. “You don’t fight fair.”

Robert smiled, all teeth. “Not with you.”

**+1**

You hadn’t slept on the flight to Los Angeles. Sure, the first class seat was comfortable and food was delicious, but you weren't able to get comfortable. You knew tht Robert had said you didn’t need to come to the funeral but you weren’t about to let him go through this alone and had used the card he had put in your name to book the next flight out to be at his side.

A chauffeur was waiting for you when you landed and whisked you away to the gated Fischer mansion in one of the more exclusive enclaves outside the city. You’d been to Robert’s penthouse a few blocks from Fischer Morrow. He’d offered to let you use his Venice apartment when you offhandedly mentioned needing a vacation but also told you that his family owned an entire island near St. Barts if you wanted something a little more private. But this mansion was truly something else. Perhaps a better term to use would be Manor or Palace. You thanked the chauffeur as he handed you your single bag and told you that ‘Mister Fischer’ was waiting for you inside.

Your heels clicked against the solid piece of marble of the entryway but you hardly noticed when the butler (oh, you hoped you were using the right term) took your bag and told you that Robert was waiting for you in the library. Of course there was a library. You followed his directions and pushed the door open, unsurprised with its silence or its wait.

Robert was leaning against the fireplace mantle, nursing a glass of cognac. The crystal clacked as he set it down when he spotted you. You were quick to meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around him as he pulled you tight against his chest. The pair of you was quiet for a moment as you tried to press every ounce of love you had into him.

“Tell me what you need. I’m here for you.”

Robert’s next breath rumbled through him and he pulled you even tighter. “Just need you.”

“You have me.”

He was quiet again for just a moment. “I’m dissolving the company.”

You went to pull back but he held firm. “What?”

“I’m going to build something better. I don’t want to be a miserable old man like him. I don’t want to devote my life to a company when I have a family who needs me.”

“A family?” You prodded softly.

“I want a family with you. I want it all with you.”

The simple words had tears forming in your eyes and you just held him tighter. “I want that, too.” You pulled back, finally able to do so when his grip loosened, and pressed a hand to his cheek. “We can talk more about it after the funeral, okay? Emotions are running high right now. I don’t want you to think that you have to make any big decisions immediately. I’m not going anywhere.”

Robert’s eyes searched for something in your face but he seemed to find what he wanted as he smiled. “I know.”

You stood at Robert’s side during the wake and funeral and tried to keep him out of the spotlight when the photogs descended on him before the reception. He held your hand in the back of the limousine that took you back to the house after the coffin was buried and didn’t let go until he was pressing you down into his bed.

You sighed as he sank into you, hot and thick. He was always so good to you. Always stuffed you full and left you gasping. Every drag and pull of him was sending new sparks up your spine and you clung to him as he dragged you closer to euphoria. “Take what you need, Bobby,” you whimpered. “Take it.”

And he did. His hips snapped to yours, hard and strong, as his hands pressed you down into the mattress until you were only able to hold onto him, letting out choked whines and whimpers into the flushed skin of his neck.

“You’re mine,” he said, words in time with each thrust.

You could feel him in your throat.

“Yours.”

Robert bared his teeth and the next thrusts knocked the air from your lungs and you wailed as you felt him come, warmth blooming and spilling. His deft fingers found your clit and rubbed vicious circles until you were keening with your own release that he swallowed with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue.

Both of you were quiet as he led you to the bath and filled it with near-scalding water and some sort of floral oils. He held you tight against his chest again and you tried not to be embarrassed when he sent one of the (many) maids to fetch the bottle of champagne he’d apparently set out for this moment. Realizing that it was the same champagne from that night in your office all those months ago did make you smile. Robert turned and poured two glasses and pressed one into your hand. You settled back against his chest and sipped, frowning when it didn’t quite taste the same. Maybe it was a different year. Oh well.

By the time you finished your glass, you were exhausted and blamed the sex and hot water. “Take me to bed, Bobby?”

He wiped you down with a warmed towel and wrapped you up in a plush robe before leading you back to bed that now had new sheets. You were too tired to care about someone being that aware of your bedroom activities. You’d be back in Australia soon enough anyway.

Your eyelids were fighting to stay open by the time your head hit the pillow and Robert settled beside you. His warm hand cupped your cheek and his thumb smoothed a gentle arc beneath your eye. “My lonely girl.”

“Yours,” you mumbled, eyes closing.

“Mine.”

You woke the next morning with a raging headache and a strange cottony feeling behind your tongue. Robert wasn’t beside you and you assumed he was probably already downstairs, eating breakfast and answering emails. You would have to convince him to take the day off.

Work could wait.

You walked to the closet in search of your bag and…couldn’t find it.

Your purse was missing from where you had left it on the bedside chair, too.

Your passport wasn’t in the lockbox.

“Bobby?” You called out as you walked down the hall, trepidation with every step. Something was wrong. “Bobby?”

The house was silent. Unnervingly so. You could almost hear the blood roaring in your ears. You were almost relieved when you spotted the butler near the front door. “Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but do you happen to know if one of the maids, um, moved my stuff? I can’t seem to find anything.”

The butler nodded, quick and sharp. “Mister Fischer has made sure everything you will need is delivered by noon. I will have the maids bring it to your room when it arrives.”

That…that didn’t make any sense. “I…have you seen Robert?” You asked, just wanting to see a familiar face. Your Bobby.

“He’s returned to Australia, miss.”

Your stomach dropped to your feet. “What?”

“He said he left a note in the bedroom explaining the situation.”

That was dismissal enough and you turned and walked back to the room, metaphorical tail tucked between your legs. You did find the note and braced for an awkward break up or something of that ilk but what you found instead had your veins turning to ice.

I’ll be back for you. We can begin our lives together as soon as I finish dealing with the board. You’ll want for nothing, I’ve made sure of it. And you can finally settle into the life I’ve always wanted to give you. Learn the house. Pick out a nursery.

This had to be a joke, right?

Right?

But the windows were on an alarm system and a man with a gun would yank you back into the room before you could even get halfway out. The doors were guarded. The landline didn’t work. The computer in the office didn’t connect to the internet.

You were alone.

Alone.

Alone until Robert came back three weeks later and placed a diamond ring on your finger as he kissed away your tears. You weren’t sure if you were crying out of anger or relief to finally have him back.

“Why’d you do this, Bobby?” You whispered into his chest as he held you close. You didn’t have the energy to fight him.

“Because you’re mine.”

A/N: please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

#hauntedhoedown #robert fischer x reader #Robert Fischer imagine #robert Fischer fic #Inception #female reader

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lokischocolatefountain · 8 months

Text

Mercy

My entry for the Haunted Hoedown created by @inklore and @psychedelic-ink. Day 7- stranded au or slasher / summer camp au + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: 18+ (Major character death, stranded in the woods, post apocalyptic life, non con, mentions of previous experiences of non con, suicidal reader)

Summary: Stranded alone in the woods and left to die, all you can ask of Joel Miller is the mercy of a quick death. He is willing to give it to you, but he needs something for himself as well.

A/N: It’s another Joel Miller weekend here at lokischocolatefountain. I have a husband!Javi locked and loaded, ready to go. But Joel demand my attention once again for the haunted hoedown. So Javi has to wait another week.

You were safe.

Well, safe from the men who had captured you. But other dangers awaited. If you were lucky, it would just be starvation, an encounter with a wild animal or a fucking heart attack. But you didn’t think your good luck would stretch that far. You were already that the raiders who killed and raided the belongings of the men who captured you did not seem interested in you. It was a goddamn miracle.

Ropes bound your arms behind your back and your legs to each other. Either the ropes were tied too tight or you had become weaker over the past ten days of captivity. They didn’t have much food to spare you. Only the small pieces of rotting meat that they fed to you on the condition that you suck their cocks.

It wasn’t as though you had a choice when tied up the way you were. There were other women held captive with you- younger, prettier, less willing to comply and more appealing to the men as they liked a challenge. You were one of the older models, beaten ragged by life both before and after the world fell apart. For them, a woman was a woman. No matter how broken you were, there was always more to break. No matter your age or how fucking crazy you’d gone from survival, you had a pair of tits and three holes. For most men, it was more than they could dream of. For you, separated from your group and all alone, it was the only thing you could barter.

Now there was no need for any of it. You would decay on the ground along with the fallen leaves and the blood you’d spilled when the men cut through your clothes. The last of the women after another one decayed just a couple feet away from you. Yours was a fate better than the girls who were taken away by the raiders. Experience had taught you that. The last time you’d been in the hands of such a group, you were younger. They used you to their heart’s content and then sold you to a man for a good price- a whole goat, a bag of rice, a record player and a couple of vinyls, and a leather jacket. Pretty good stuff. If you had to valuate yourself now, you’d probably go for a small fraction of that- maybe just the leather jacket.

You would no longer go for the same price. You no longer had the strength to kill the man who purchased you like you were just a thing.

You swallowed, your throat aching for water. But all you got was the piercing pain of a hundred jagged pebbles scratching your throat. One of the factoids from an old encyclopedia popped up in your head: It takes x days for dehydration to cause death. Unfortunately, your brain hadn’t thought to pay more attention to the number, leaving you with no information.

What you knew was that it took one day of dehydration to wish for death.

Daylight withered away and darkness descended in the woods, matching the darkness of your thoughts. In the pitch black night with no stars or even a sliver of the moon, whether your eyes were open or closed did not matter. In the times before, it was advised for women to return home before nightfall. As though danger only lurked in darkness. As though men did not behave atrociously in broad daylight. Shaking on the ground from the cold, dehydrated, near death, your biggest fear was still man.

It was why the snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves under a heavy footfall struck more fear in you than the sight of the infected ever did. Man.

Measured. Careful. Not infected. Man.

He could just be passing by.

It could’ve been delusions inspired by dehydration and starvation, but the footsteps sounded just a little louder as the seconds passed. He was getting closer.

Joel Miller didn’t know, but your body already played to his beat, your heartbeats responding to the sound of his footsteps. Pills from Atlanta passed on to him from his contact rested in his backpack, the currency with the highest value in the QZ. His hand itched to take one pill for himself. Just one. The nightmares of losing his child flashed before his eyes even before he could succumb to the weariness of the journey and sleep. A pill would help.

Don’t get high on your own supply.

He needed to be at his best state of mind since he was traveling alone now, his companion having been taken out by a clicker on their journey. But God was it tempting.

Darkness enveloped the woods. The moon and stars had abandoned Earth for the night, afraid that if they shone their light on the land, they’d see its haunting wreckage. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but it still played tricks on him. For a second, he believed he might have seen a figure move on the ground.

Leaves rustled and crunched beneath his feet. His hands immediate grabbed the gun he had at the ready, the muzzle pointed to the ground. It hit something— someone, he realized when it gasped.

“Please,” your low, shaky voice begged. “Please shoot me.”

He would’ve thought he misheard. Who’d ask to be shot when threatened with a gun? But such was the world in which they’d lived. Death was sometimes more desirable than whatever horrors life had to offer. Joel had survived, somehow. Violence and the sheer human instinct for self preservation kept him around until now, even a decade and a half after the collapse of society.

He brought a lighter close to the ground and lit it, the little golden flame illuminating your bloodied and bruised. He noticed that your arms were bound behind your back and legs tied together at your ankles.

Joel understood you didn’t have long. A day maybe. Longer if you were fed and hydrated. He himself was not interested in charity. If someone else happened by you and you were able to convince them to toss you a piece of bread… But you didn’t want charity. You asked for his bullet, not sustenance.

Bullets didn’t grow on trees.

“Good news. You’ll be dead by daybreak.”

“Please,” you whimpered in a low gravelly voice, mustering up all your energy to beg for this small act of mercy.

You hadn’t asked for his precious rations or water. Only that he finish you off with the weapon he pointed at you. He dropped his belongings somewhere in the vicinity, not bothering to dignify your request with a response.

Joel lied down on the ground in the vicinity in a sleeping bag, his pack serving as a pillow. Sleep did not come easy. He merely rested his eyes, his sense attuned to his surroundings even when he was meant to rest.

When the sun rose, he rolled his sleeping bag and set it inside a hollow tree before heading to the pond nearby. He returned, having washed up, ready to resume his journey back to the QZ. Curious about you, he went to the site where you were last night.

“Please,” you begged once again. “Before you leave. Please.”

He nudged you with his boot, your weakening body rolling to the side and giving him a good view. One bullet. But what a waste of a good body. He could help you in return for something for himself. There was a brothel in the QZ, of course. The oldest profession carried on right under FEDRA’s nose. They pretended to not notice. Sometimes, they’d conduct a raid and arrest some women under the guise of maintaining the law. An excuse for the FEDRA guys to have the women for themselves for the night.

Joel did not indulge in such services. He didn’t see the point in spending precious ration cards just to get off. His spit and left hand were enough for him to get by. But you were free of cost.

“Since you asked so nicely…” he drawled, withdrawing his knife from its holster. He sliced through the ropes that bound your ankles together. You didn’t know his intentions though you’d come to expect it from men over the years. If he wanted to take advantage, he surely would’ve gone ahead with it last night. Sure, Joel hadn’t intended it at first. But now that you were available…

Reliable contraception had died with the world. Too risk averse in this specific matter, he’s contented himself with the rare blowjob. Pussy was a delicacy he hadn’t had in a while. You didn’t protest as he tore your pants off of you, finding skin beneath.

“Be good and I might just kill you in the end, darlin’…” he promised and you spread your legs, cooperating, being good so he would consider it. You didn’t know when the next person would pass by this place. Even if someone did before you could die a slow death, there was no assurance that they’d kill you rather than prolong your miserable existence.

“Wha’s your name?”

“Joel.”

Joel. Joel brought a damp cloth to your face, wiping the blood and dirt off you. It was…strange. It felt as though you were being taken care of. It wasn’t the case of course. But it felt good to believe he was taking care of you. It was the first bit of humanity you’d experienced in a very long time.

The blade slipped under your half torn t-shirt, cutting up the fabric that had done a poor job so far of giving you any dignity. His large hand roamed your now naked torso. Calluses caught on your somehow soft skin. The sensation was the first pleasant thing you’d felt in a long time. You attempted unconsciously to lean into his touch, but your weakness kept you glued to the ground. Even the cold blade of his knife felt good. You’d gone mad, surely. This was definitely a stage of delusion caused by your dehydration and starvation.

He cupped your cheek and leaned down, capturing your lips with his. It was as though you’d forgotten to kiss. The men who took interest in you were less concerned with making use of your lips for a kiss. If Joel had put his cock between them, you would’ve known better what to do. It seemed he’d also forgotten. He wasn’t kissing you. He bit and sucked and devoured.

Your hands were still tied behind you. They dug into your back. But it didn’t hurt as much as Joel’s hand supping your tits. Even the animals who last had you under their control were gentler than this. But you weren’t too offended. It hurt. But there would be sweet death at the end of all this pain. So you embraced it fully, letting out nothing but a little whimper as a sign that you were at all affected by his touch.

Even in your state of near death, you could tell that he was a handsome man. Grey interspersed black curls on his head. Patchy beard hid rugged, sun damaged skin. His aquiline nose would’ve inspired sinful thoughts in you had you been further away from death. In a normal world, he would’ve been getting a drink at a bar and you would’ve noticed him.

Joel spit on his hand and rubbed it around on your dry cunt. With his thumb and forefinger, he parted your cunt lips before inserting his middle finger. Inch by painful inch, he penetrated your unwilling body that was attached to a very willing mind. There was no water left to be spared to wetten your cunt for the man.

“C-cut me,” you suggested, desiring the penetration to be smoother. If this was the last time you got to be fucked, it wouldn’t hurt to hurt a little to enjoy the last few minutes on the mortal plane. “Bl-blood.”

He seemed to understand your weak implication. You hissed as the sharp edge of his knife cut through the top layers of your skin. Red blood oozed out and he swept his hand over it, collecting the blood and smearing it over your cunt. He slipped a finger inside you, lubricating your hole with your own blood.

He knelt over you, his knees on either side of your body. Then he unzipped his jeans, the teeth of the zipper making a scratching metal sound. He was a good length, girth and veiny. He stroked himself as he stared at your bloodied hole.

Fucking a dying woman using her own blood as lube. Of all the messed up things he had done, this was easily on the top ten. Not that he maintained an actual list. Despite her decrepit state, she looked welcoming with her legs spread out and eyes on his cock. He bent your legs at your knees, your body pliant in its weakness. You were a thing of rare beauty in his journey. Nature had reclaimed its place, growing between abandoned cars and splitting into giant overpasses. This, you, were another part of nature to him.

Woman, all beautiful in your vulnerability, laid out to be claimed.

He guided his cock between your legs and forced himself in. Red lube you’d given up for him to use on you coated his cock, reminding him of the violence of his desire. He twitched inside you as he pushed in, a perverse sort of excitement stimulating him.

He brought the knife up to your neck and rested the blunt edge against your throat. You gulped. Your eyes widened. Your breaths quickened. Your cunt clenched around his cock and Oh God how divine you felt this way.

You’d asked for death, practically begged for it. But fear was not something you could prevent. Your wretched mortal body was programmed with the foolishness of wanting to stay alive.

“Been so long,” he muttered when he bottomed out inside you. Though you’d had many men inside you, it’d been long since any stretched you out so good. You took a deep breath and wished you had your hands free. You were overcome by a sudden urge to touch him. To run you hands down his sturdy arms and solid chest. It’d been so long since you wished.

“Good?” You asked, squeezing his cock. He smiled and bent forward to kiss you. Your lips, your chin, along your jaw. It was tender. Too tender for sex in the woods with your clothes torn off and your thigh bleeding into the soil.

He began to move, pulling out just a little before pushing back in. He savored it. After all, this could be his last chance at a cunt for a very long time. He grabbed on to your tits to use as handles, making you squeeze around him. Your lips let out a painful little whine, but he didn’t feel guilty. What bad did a little more pain do? You were going to die anyway. If you weren’t making use of your tits and cunt, at least he could enjoy them.

“So good…” he praised and you responded in kind, thrusting back weakly. “Yeah? You like that, cunt?” He asked, using the crude word in place of your name. He didn’t even know your name. But Cunt was appropriate for the purpose you served. You nodded. “I really struck gold in the fucking woods of all places, huh.”

“Good cunt,” he praised, the words shooting straight into said body part.

“Feelin’ good?”

You nodded, unable to say much else under the assault of the sensations. You didn’t have to for he claimed your lips once again in a kiss. He was better this time and so were you. Your lips stayed connected with his just like your pussy with his cock, devouring each other in desperation for a taste of something good in all the wretchedness.

Joel’s cock drilled into you. Merciless, fast, painful. All you knew before was hunger and suffering. With him, it had all disappeared. It was just Joel now. He consumed you, turning you from a discarded body passed from one raider to the other to Good Cunt. You liked the sound of those words on his lips.

“Just like that, Cunt,” he hissed as you milked his cock, your thighs cramping as your muscles contracted. Something pulled somewhere and you screamed in pain and your cunt tightened for him. Warm cum spilled inside you, the sensation a distracting relief in the midst of the pain.

Tears slipped down the sides of your face, cooling your skin.

“Did well. Did so well, Cunt,” he praised as he tucked himself back inside. He hadn’t felt so good in forever. Such a relief. Such an unburdening of stress and anxiety over his smuggling and its chances of success. He zipped himself up and bent over to retrieve his weapons.

“How do you want to go?” He asked, weighing the gun in one hand and knife in another as he looked down at your debauched body.

You made your choice, thanked him for his mercy and closed your eyes.

My Masterlist

156 notes · View notes

inklore · 8 months

Text

sweet serial killer

premise: it doesn’t matter if he’s killing you or you're killing someone else. you’re putty in his hands right now, and you’re both fucked.

pairing: ethan landry x (f)reader

word count: 1.7k

contents: piv, more psychotic feelings than anything, choking, mentions of knife and blood play, murders, dirty talk, stalking, au since this is not in correlation with the film, pain kink.

note: this is my first time writing for this little fucked up curly q even though i have drafts upon drafts of ideas for him, which i'll gladly write if ya'll want more.

haunted hoedown day three.

You should be surprised.

You should be pissed.

Scared.

Running for your life.

Something. Anything.

Other than standing in front of a murderer, your knuckles curling around the edge of the dresser your ass is pushed against. Your excelled heart rate pounding in your ears the closer he steps to you, leaving no room for you to breathe without touching him. Without smelling him. Stealing each other's air.

Your eyes should be mapping out a quick exit. Coming up with a plan to get the hell out of here. Not looking into his. Not seeing the deep hue of nothingness that is abnormal to see in a sane person's eyes. The dilation of pupils letting you know that he’s got a plan either way. No matter how you take what he just told you.

“I’m ghostface.”

The darkness in his eyes tells you you can run, but you won’t get far. You can tell someone, but we both know you won’t because I see you.

It’s why you haven’t moved. Why an escape is the last thing on your mind. Because your eyes are casting that same darkness right back at him.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His words are like a fire engulfing you, more dangerous than the performance of normality you constantly put on. The sweet, rich girl whose parents gave her a free ride to college, who dote on her like a prized show pony because she’s the perfect child—the perfect daughter.

The one thing in their lives they didn’t screw up.

Being born screwed up and hiding it well, no fault of their own.

Known psychopaths rarely get what they want. They might, for a little while. But the lavishes never last. There's always more you need, more you want. And there are only so many people in this world who will give you what you want out of fear.

Fear leads to trouble. Fear leads to getting caught. Turned in. Turned upon.

Hidden psychopaths, however, have an advantage. A perfected way of being that makes them seem like the nicest people you’ve ever met. The person you can run to. Trust. Count on. The person you wish you could be.

That’s how you get what you want.

That’s how you make the high of deceiving, hurting, and killing last.

And if rich parents who like to hire nannies have taught you anything, it's that it is very easy to pretend. To perfect this little act. To be perceived as loving and being able to love when really all you want to do is gouge the person next to you’s eyes out.

You have a system. A routine. You never let your crown slip. You never let anyone see you for what you truly are. You’d lose everything. Lavishes gone. That control you have gone.

You didn’t care about being loved or feared.

Feelings meant nothing to you.

But watching the emotions of pain enacted on someone's face when you caused it? Nothing compared to it.

Besides, maybe the way Ethan is looking at you right now.

The look someone gets when they look into a mirror and like the monster they see looking back at them.

Part of you should have known. Should have seen this coming with the way his eyes were always already on yours when you looked his way in class. Or that night you caught him following you around campus, but you pretended you didn’t see him—much like the night he caught you red handed, literally, with blood staining your nails, and your pre-rehearsed explanation only making his eyes grow wider and fill with darkness, he quickly smiled away.

And the nail that should have been pounded into the coffin when your roommate got attacked and all Ghostface did was wave his shiny little knife in your face, a gloved hand around your throat, and then disappeared down the fire escape. And the next day, when everyone was making your skin crawl from sympathy hugs and the fake tears that were glossing your eyes, Ethan had only given you dark looks from across the courtyard.

Brows low and casting a shadow over his eyes in class.

You should have known then.

You’re usually so much better at reading people, trying to understand their normality to copy it. Use it against them.

But Ethan wasn’t normal. That much was clear.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he chuckles under his breath as he shrugs, “this perfect little daddies girl, the girl everyone wants to sleep with, is crazy.” A slow smile lifts the corner of his mouth, “so many nights I’ve followed you, and you’ve kept your facade going. Even when no one was watching. Until the night I ran into you in the hall, the night I knew. I could see it written all over your face.”

He leans in closer, his curls ghosting over your forehead. His voice a whisper, “but you’re not very good at hiding your messes, so I did it for you. I saved us both the trouble. You getting caught and me—well, Ghostface—taking credit for a kill so messy. And when I gave you my little present, that pesky roommate of yours gone, I could see it in your eyes. That trust. That you would have been happy with me either killing you or fucking you.”

Your breath halts in your lungs, burning the back of your throat from the noise you let out when Ethan grabs it. Squeezing just enough to make it hard to swallow and to make that growing hunger move past your belly and throb between your legs.

“Which is it now? Do you want to be fucked or killed?”

Your lips try to form words, but the hand around your throat mingled with that perfected crown falling and shattering to the ground has your darkness making itself known more than just in the fire that’s so clearly burning in your eyes—the gasps that sound like weak whimpers, the warmth of your body against Ethan’s, the way your insides feel like molten lava when you consider both objectives—your mind is clouded with a pleasure you’ve only ever felt when you’ve watched the agony of pain fade out someone's light completely, your nails smelling of copper for days after.

If Ethan pulled out his knife right now and put it to your throat, you’d come before he made the first cut.

And as he says, “if I went downstairs and grabbed one of your fans and brought them up here and slit their throat for you, would you like that? Would you prefer that instead?”

Your body shivers from his words, from the free hand that's running down your hip to the apex of your inner thigh—your sorry excuse for a skirt giving him more than enough access to press his thumb to the growing wet patch on the outside of your underwear. The pad of his finger pressing in and adding just the right amount of pressure to your aching clit to make your eyes flutter.

“Or is it your insides you want me to see?”

The involuntary whimper of his name, the motion of your hips trying to rub yourself against the miniscule touch between your legs, his last words, and the accuracy of it all are the finality for both of you.

The thing that finally lets you both know that it doesn’t matter if he’s killing you, or you’re killing someone else, or blood is spilt for you, you’re putty in his hands right now, and you’re both fucked.

So when his lips come down on yours, it’s hard and rough and lacking any sort of passion.

Any sort of fake pleasure you’ve always had to give to past lovers.

There's nothing fake about the heat inside of you. The sauna of depravity that Ethan is pulling out of you—devouring it with bloody teeth that match your own hunger. Your own fucked up way of getting off. Of feeling something.

When Ethan starts to descend to his knees, leaving a trail of bites along your neck that feel too hard and imprinting to not be a personal vendetta of anger, of want, of a need to make you feel pain, to want it from him—you stop him.

Yanking his curls so hard, he’s hissing against your mouth. Your fingers move in a flash of pushed away fabric, buttons, and zippers to free him and wrap a hand around his cock. Giving it a couple pumps. Watching the way his mouth parts and his lips curl in pleasure when you tighten and twist around the head.

Wordlessly telling him what you want when you turn away, pushing your ass out for him as you bend yourself over the dresser.

If you didn’t have him inside of you one way or another, you know you’d lose your patience. Know that darkness would simmer away into something worse, something that would leave the both of you in more agony than pleasure.

You needed him.

And by the sound Ethan makes when he thrusts into you—hard, without warning—you know he needs you too. Know that he’s probably gotten off to the thought of you bloodied and underneath him, his knife pressed to your throat, threatening to make you bleed if you didn’t let him come inside of you. If you didn’t let him lick the wounds he wants to create against your flesh.

The pace he sets is rough.

Harsh against your body that rubs against the rigid edge of the dresser. His nails dig into your hips as he pulls you back onto him, as he grabs the back of your neck, digging his fingers into your skull.

The palm that snakes around to your neck pulls you up and against his front, putting your body at a new angle that has your muscles stretching in pain and making your eyes roll back. The noises of pleasure and pain like a fucked up hymn.

“That night I was in your apartment, your life in my hands, do you know how much self control I had to have to not slice this pretty throat?” His teeth graze against the skin below your ear, his own groans and hitches of breath making you feel lightheaded. “To not make you bleed and spread it against my cock and make you jerk it off. Make you use your mouth to lick me clean.”

It’s those words and the lack of air his palm is allowing your lungs to intake that make you come. That has the gasp falling from your mouth sounding like something dying, something begging for life.

Portraying the opposite of his words. Of why you’re coming. Of why the rush has you going lax against him and smiling.

#ethan landry x you #ethan landry smut #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x y/n #jack champion x reader #scream smut #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry #ghostface smut #ethan landry one shot #ethan landry fanfiction #ethan landry fic #hauntedhoedown

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saradika · 8 months

Text

— BLEED FOR ME | part i

[masterlist]

mand’alor!vampire!din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 1.8k

series prompts: vampire!au + “i would burn the world for you.” + vampire has a taste for specific blood + revenge + (one-sided) enemies to lovers (+ 2 to be revealed!)

tags: vampire!au, implication of drinking blood, reader has scar on shoulder, mentions of death

For the haunted hoedown! Looking forward to sharing this, I wanted to do a vamp!din last Halloween but wasn’t able to. So to work on this with the inspiration of these prompts is so exciting! I hope you enjoy! 💖

When it’s revealed that the Mand'alor is seeking a companion, you find yourself among those hoping to be chosen. A life of luxury in exchange for your blood seems a fair trade - even if you’re hiding a closely-kept secret. One that would certainly put your life in danger.

Though, you are not alone. Because he has one, as well.

The nervous energy of the crowd is palpable - it’s impossible not to get swept along with it. The cowl of your cape is tugged down lower as you follow the others streaming out ahead of you.

Out of the small town, winding around the side of the steep hill. The air growing heavier, the fog rolling in as you climb the moss-covered steps. The castle looms against the darkening horizon, all blackened stone and tall, twisting spires.

They mirror the curl of your stomach - the weight of your feet as they seem to slow, the closer you get.

But you’ve come this far. You can’t go back now.

The gates remain shut, and you’re forced to halt. Huddled together in small groups, nervous and excited whispers breaking the silence.

A shiver even with the heavy cloaks that protect the bared necks and shoulders, a detail noted on that weathered scroll left in the town square.

And for the first time, you doubt.

When it had been announced that the Mand’alor was seeking a Companion, the news has spread. It was no secret that the vampire lord had sought blood.

But he had never chosen anyone before. Never pursued someone, like this.

There had been others but they had never lasted long. Just let into the castle long enough to keep him alive for another moon.

It had amassed a crowd, those who couldn’t resist the reward that was offered - thousands of gold coins, enough to live any life they could want.

Those who wanted the fame.

Those who wanted protection.

Those who wanted to see the spectacle for themselves.

And then, there was you.

Now that you’re at the doorstep, you’re suddenly unsure. If you were chosen - once you step through - it’s unlikely you’d leave alive.

Would that be worth it?

Would you get what you were looking for?

Even after all your training, it hadn’t truly prepared you for the patchwork of emotions you feel now.

Guilt and desperation and melancholy and regret and anger - all branding into your skin until you can feel yourself trembling with the effort to hold it back.

But the gates are parting now. And it’s too late to turn back.

A figure it stepping through - her leather armor blackened with oil. Her eyes are bright, and not the shade of red you were expecting.

Her chin is held high as her eyes sweep through the crowd, an eerie silence settling over your travel companions.

And wordlessly, she begins to sort. Sizing up each person as she approaches. A quick dart of her eyes as she plucks at clothes, examines faces.

Pulling a few to one side, the rest clearly dismissed. No pattern to her choosing that you can sense - that feeling of dread ratcheting up in your stomach as the crowd grows smaller and you grow closer.

Until she’s standing in front of you.

Her fingers pinch at your chin, forcing your eyes to hers. Dark eyes under darker lashes flick across your face, until they drop down to the clasp at your throat.

Your hood is pulled back, as deft fingers unhook the brass fastenings. The wool pools on the cracked stone as your skin is exposed.

Her eyes follow the curve of your cheek, to your neck, to the sharp curves of the scar on your shoulder, just above the cut of your tunic.

A reminder of that night. One that still haunts you, a year later.

Those eyes flick back up to yours.

There’s a second where you stoop to collect your robe - feeling bare, flayed open under her gaze - but her boot presses purposely against the hem.

Shooting you a small smirk as you rise again obediently, before a hand is guiding you towards the group she had selected.

And then, it’s over.

“Those chosen will be brought before the Mand’alor.” The woman’s voice rings out, “And he shall decide from there.”

With her signal the gates creak open again, and you're ushered inside. Across a wide bridge and through a massive set of wooden double-doors.

And then, you’re inside the castle. Those doors shutting behind you with a sense of finality.

The long halls are dark, in the fading evening. The last of the sunlight filtered through tall, stained glass windows - their shadows broken into shades of crimson and silver and gold, distorted where they spill across the floor.

A chill creeps into your skin. The ice of it feels reminiscent of your dreams - that cold bite against your skin, a balm to the burning heat that had surrounded you.

It distracts you enough that you don't see him slip from the shadows. Near-silent steps as he moves to stand before the small crowd, even with the heavy plates of his shining armor.

Everything seems to go still then. The inhale of a collected breath, now held.

You should feel terror. This man - this vampire - has killed hundreds. Thousands. Has feasted on even more.

He's a monster.

The fight or flight should be sinking in - but somewhere deep inside, there is only that weight that you still carry. A prickle across your skin at the way he moves, all sleek and careful movements.

Starting where the woman guides him. His hands stay motionless - tucked in the curve on his belt, the other curling around a black hilt at his waist. Her quiet murmurs that only he can hear. As he stops in front of each one.

No expression can be leaked, with the mask he wears.

Their faces, and finally yours, reflected back at you.

You do your best to gather your courage.

To keep your chin tilted up, gazing into that dark band of his visor. As you hear the rattle of the slow inhale of his breath, as if he could smell you from beneath his helmet.

Even you can see the fear in your widen eyes, feel the small tremor in your limbs as his hand suddenly and slowly moves.

As if he can't help himself.

As if it is on instinct.

Reaching out to touch your shoulder, your neck - but then, just hovering.

Your terror catches up now. That steady beat of your heart now pounding in your chest, knocking wildly against your ribs.

The smallest flinch as his fingertips hang in mid-air, before his hand is curling into a fist.

Dropping back down.

There's the smallest jerk of his head. A gleam in the woman's eye as her hand curves around your bicep, as he sweeps from the room.

A murmur of confusion, disappointment - the rest robbed of their spectacle and entertainment. It had taken longer to get here - everything over so quickly, it feels as if you’ve only just stepped inside.

Armored guards move from their neat rows - shields raised to ward off the remainers of your group - to urge them back outside and back to their homes.

Leaving only the chosen behind.

Only you.

The woman in armor guides you quickly to your new home. Taking you through twisting corridors lined with ancient portraits, up a winding path of stone stairs.

You’re utterly lost, and a part of you wonders if that’s intentional. To keep you trapped inside. A silent realization that perhaps, you haven’t been nearly as clever as you thought.

Those worries lingering as she stops outside a heavy wooden door, lit on either side by flickering oil lamps.

“This is your room,” She tells you, her fingers resting on the door, before she’s pushing it open.

With the stories you’ve been told about the fearsome Mand’alor and the fortress he lurks in, you certainly weren’t expecting a room so… beautiful.

There’s a luxury that seems to weave throughout it. Rich wooden floors and plush rugs. A constellation of glittering stars painted on a domed, navy ceiling - as if you had invited the night sky in to stay.

Bookcases line the walls - framing a wooden desk, plush seating next to the bench that was built into the space beneath the iron-wrought windows.

Thick velvets curtains thrown back to let the setting sun in, casting the four-poster canopy bed in a golden light.

You almost forget yourself, as your fingers run across the bedspread. Finely-made beneath your touch, as soft as spun silk.

If the situation had been different… you think you might have loved it.

“There will be someone to call on you if there’s anything you want. And to take care of things during your day.” She interrupts your admiring thoughts, bringing you back.

You send a silent chastisement to yourself, as your fingers clasp - the picture of docility.

“The Mand’alor has been looking for someone for quite some time. I will give you a moment to get settled, but understand that your duties are to begin tonight.”

The pounding of your heart begins again, not realizing it would be so soon.

She must see the surprise that flickers across your face - her arms crossing as she leans in the doorway, “He has not fed since the last. We’ll all be happier once he does.”

Since the last Companion.

You wonder what happened to them. If they were used and cast aside. If they were drained dry.

If the same would happen to you.

No. You won’t let it.

“I’m happy to begin my work as soon as it pleases the Mand’alor.” Your voice is soft, and her sharp look softens.

“You’re quick.” She smiles, “That’s good. If you listen, you’re gonna be just fine.”

The nod you give is cut short, as the door closes. Left alone, your attention immediately goes to the furniture in the room. You don’t have much time.

Something used as often as a bed would be impractical, especially if someone will be tending to you as the woman says.

The bookcases touch both the ceiling and the floor, the books in neat, uniform stacks. No room for disruption.

Your fingers tug at the bench, but it’s solid wood - there’s no storage beneath.

No closet either, an empty brass rack stands against one of the curving stone walls.

Leaving only the desk, as you hurry over. The bottles of ink clinking together as the tips of your fingers run over the wooden top, and then under.

Looking for a hinge, your fingers closing around the ceramic knob as you carefully pull. Revealing a drawer full of rolled-up scrolls, a handful of quills, a thick leather-bound book.

There’s a knock then, and your pulse races.

Fingers fumbling as you reach for the fastenings of your tall boots. A creak of the door as it begins to open.

Undoing them just enough to pull the thin silver dagger and the sharpened stake free. Hastily shoving them behind the scrolls of paper inside your desk.

Before you’re pushing the drawer shut - just as the Mand’alor fills your doorway.

And the first of the 2 secret prompts are: 'this person' ordered me to kill you but i actually think i'm in love with you. (The second part to come into play!) thank you for checking this out! And hope you like this au! 🥀

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #vampire!din #din djarin imagine #haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown

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psychedelic-ink · 8 months

Text

𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐓.

DAY FIVE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: animal shapeshifter au + "you're not actually scared are you? of me?"

pairing: animal shapeshifter!pero tovar x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, romance, cottagecore, fantasy au

summary: you decide to take a swim in a lake that is deep in the middle of the forest. during your swim, pero finds you, and he's not happy that you went out alone during a full moon.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: breeding, marking, biting, does this count as monsterfucking if he's just human with wings and two cocks, pero has two cocks, despite the warnings this is actually quite soft, double penetration, praise kink, soft!dom pero, possessive!pero, creampie

a/n: during this i learned that some bird species have two cocks. you're welcome for this information and thank you for voting in the poll dfvdfvf (also i didn't edit this so sorry about that ily all)

The moonlight beckons you. It always has and always will. You watch as the water effortlessly brings the white light pouring from above with gentle waves kissed by the calm breeze. That same breeze rustles the leaves of dark trees. You’re not afraid of the darkness anymore. Haven’t been since you moved out from your family home, away from those who want to stifle you and silence you.

Your steps are soft as you near the lake, the ends of your dress brushing the grass. You feel a predatory gaze taking in the sight of you, he’s in the shadows, enjoying the show.

Your grumpy companion, if you will.

Slowly, you drag the back of your hands up your waist and trace the pads of your fingers over the sweetheart neckline of your bodice. You lower them, feeling the rich ribbons holding the entire dress together.

With one swift movement, you pull one thread and the rest comes down, pooling at your feet.

You enter the lake, it’s cold but not cold enough that you’d want to jump out. You exhale a shaky breath and swim deeper, turning in the water, you observe the full moon.

A rustling fills the silence. And feather-like steps are heard. Your feet sway underwater as you float upright. What captures your gaze first are a set of deep brown eyes that are too human to belong to a beast.

Then you notice the fur, the pointed nose, and the snarl that shows white pointy teeth. The beast steps closer, paws large enough to cover your entire face. You swim close to the edge of the lake, your feet move against the thickness of water, you want to place your arms over the ground to brace yourself but decide against it. He’s angry, you can feel it, you just don’t know why yet.

He stops at the edge you refuse to brace yourself against and leans down, his wide nuzzle an inch away. He inhales and exhales deeply, the force of his breath nearly drying your skin. He still bares his teeth towards you and you notice the faint traces of blood over his dark fur.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growls, the deep voice echoing in your head. “It’s the full moon it’s dangerous.”

“There are no people here.”

His tongue darts out to move over his teeth, eyes watching you carefully, “It is not the people I fear, little soul.”

With a sudden need to be close to him, you bury your fingers into the thick neck of the beast and urge him to come closer until your forehead is pressed firmly against his. He doesn’t close his eyes but you do. He’s incredibly warm; a faint scent of lavender and blood clings to his skin.

��Join me,” you murmur. He watches you curiously for a moment before nodding and taking a step back. You revel in watching his transformations. His eyes finally flutter closed, a dark purple mist surrounding him, he lets out an audible breath.

You first see the wings; dark and lush, they spread to his sides before folding back.

Then you see the rest of him. Sunkissed skin, broad chest, and a stomach that has gotten rounder ever since he met you—a sign of a life with balance. Even though you have them memorized, your eyes dart over every faint scar that is scattered all around his torso. You love them. Tracing your tongue over every since one, the lightened patches of skin reminding you of stars.

Pero steps forward, naked as the day he was born, soft cock hanging between strong thighs, he approaches the lake. And you.

“I am still mad,” he grumbles, his accent thicker now that he’s using his actual voice. “You did not tell me you were going to come here.”

“I knew you would find me.”

He doesn’t say anything and slowly submerges into the water, his wings follow him in the water like a mermaid's tail. You frown when he turns his back, his back tense and shoulders raised, you come closer and begin to cup water and release it over his wings. A shudder crawls up his spine, the delicate limbs playfully twitching despite his anger.

“Just because I did not kill you the first time—”

“Or the second.”

He grunts, “Or the second—”

“Or the third.”

“¡Suficiente!” his wings raise higher and he turns viciously, the same anger you saw in him as a wolf returning full force. “This is not a game. There are creatures out there that won’t hesitate to rip you shred to shred.”

Pero forces you to swim until your back hits the shore, the lake’s depth surpasses you both, yet he manages to towards over you.

“Pero. . .”

“You do not know what is out there but I do,” he snarls. “I am one of them.”

He places a hand over your chest, blunt nails biting into the skin right above your heart. The curve of his nose brushes against yours. Underwater, you feel the heft of his cock pressed against your stomach, it takes you everything not to moan and rub yourself against him like a dog in heat.

“What you don’t understand,” he hisses, voice dangerously low. “This heart belongs to me now—Not yours, fucking mine.”

He pins your hips together, knocking the air from your lungs, your jaw drops and all you can do is stare. Instinctively, you legs press together, the lack of motion threatening to pull you under the moonlit lake. Pero doesn’t allow it, however, both his hands drop to your waist, keeping your head barely above the surface.

You feel the brush of his lips on your cheek.

“That muscle that pumps blood in your veins and keeps you alive. . . it is not strong enough to take the attack of claws and teeth, or something worse. You owe it to me to keep it alive. You owe it to me to let me know of late-night dips, after making me fall for such a susceptible creature.”

You close your eyes, your heart racing in your chest. You have no idea how he’s been around, centuries perhaps, he’d never told you. But you know it was a lonely life, to be gifted with the remarkable talent of turning into every animal imaginable only to cease to be human, for that talent, which was thought to be a gift, seep into the essence of your humanity.

His gaze wanders over your countenance. You feel the heaviness of it. Finally, you open your eyes and bring your thumb over to the scar that goes over his eye and stroke it gently. The ridges of puffy skin catch against the pad of your thumb and you swallow.

"You are not actually scared, are you? Of me?" he murmurs.

You smile, “Never,” you brush your lips together. “And you’re right. I’m yours. Sorry for wandering off. I honestly was just looking for you, I missed you and knew you’d trace my scent.”

You scratch his jaw, the short hairs tickling your skin. He observes you a second longer before cracking a smile and nuzzling your neck, you feel teeth on your skin as he rocks his hips forward. “I’ve missed you too, my sweet soul.”

Before you know it he’s hauling you both out of the lake, laying you over the velvet grass. The soft blades tickle your skin. Pero lies next to you, propping himself up on his elbow, he allows his eyes to devour you whole. His wings stretch over you both like the night sky, long and wide, you swallow as you ache to touch them—to feel their softness on your fingertips.

“You like my wings,” he states, an observation. You nod and a wing descends, the tip of the feathers moving down the valley of your breasts and over to your stomach. You hold your breath as it inches closer to your clit, and you spread your legs without a second thought. “So obedient,” he murmurs. “Or is this your way of apologizing to me, hermosa?”

The brush of feathers between your legs halts the words that were about to spill. Your body arches, a loud gasp tearing from your throat. The subtle touch makes your body sing for him, begging him to touch you with force. Enjoying your pain driven from pleasure, he continues to play with you with the end of his wing, and you enjoy the sight of slick smearing against the feathers.

“Perhaps it’s both,” you murmur, sliding your hand down his torso and cupping his cock. You wrap your fingers and where he would groan eagerly, he turns rigid. Thinking that he’s still angry, you swipe a thumb over the head and move down.

Something else hits your hand. Something hard like the one in your palm.

“P-Pero. . .” you look up to him. He grunts in acknowledgment, waiting for your question. You move your hand again to make sure what you’re feeling is correct, your fingers slip between two heavy cocks, one of them decked in soft, tiny feathers. You let out a strangled sound. “Do—Do you have two cocks right now?”

He clears his throat. Normally you’d find the flush of his cheeks and his loss for words cute but you’re in shock. You’ve been with him many times before and never did he have two cocks.

And there was no way you missed one.

“It only happens once a month,” you squeeze the feathered one and he groans, hips thrusting to feel the softness of your palm. “It is. . . a side effect.”

“Side effect of what?”

“Of whatever the hell I am,” he answers bitterly. “It is for breeding. The. . . feathers they’re not actually feathers, they heighten the pleasure of a female and make them more. . . fertile.”

A beat of silence.

While you’re at a loss for words, you continue to stroke him, and indeed he was right. The soft things you deemed as feathers left a flowery-scented substance on your palm. Your lids flutter at the scent, your heart feeling light and full of want.

The mere thought of Pero filling you is enough to have your cunt drooling for him. And he must’ve sensed it because his eyes darken and his wings hide you from the watchful gaze of the moon.

He thrusts a little harder than, the bulbous head of his second cock hitting your wrist, “You like it?” he nips at your chin and cups your mound, slipping two fingers inside with ease. “I would want nothing more to fill this pretty little cunt up with all of me, but are you sure?”

Pero skims his teeth down your neck, “I never had someone during the full moon.”

“Then I’m happy your first,” you grind into the heel of his palm, moaning, when he presses hard against the bundle of nerves. “I want you, Pero. All of you. I want to feel you for days.”

“Oh, preciosa, you’ll be feeling me for centuries.”

There’s something exceptionally filthy being on all fours in the middle of the forest with Pero fucking his tongue into your sopping entrance.

He’d been going at it for at least half an hour, you lost track of time during your forth orgasm, the ground beneath soaking your essence. His mouth, his fingers, he spared no expense in working you open. His mustache chafed your skin as he stuffed you full with three fingers, scissoring them while being knuckle deep.

“Pero—I—I need—” you break down, tears streaming down your face. It’s too much. You don’t know how much you can take it. “Please.”

“You think you are ready to take me?” he kisses the lips of your cunt long and slow, the tip of his tongue tracing your folds. “Poor thing. Did I tire you out already?”

“I—I just want your cock. . .s,” you say, yet you still follow his mouth with your hips when he moves away. He suddenly flips you to your back, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I want your cocks,” you sinks his teeth into your neck, his regular cock brushing your folds. “I want all of you, Pero. Breed me.”

“Fuck,” he rasps, his tone frustrated. “Fuck—Of course, bebita, I’ll breed you so fucking good. Then I’ll fuck you again and again, until you are round with me,” something dark flashes in his eyes when you whimper. “You are making it really hard to go slow.”

You cry out again, purposefully grinding against his cocks, his eyes roll back and he momentraily loses himself, thrusting forward—

You both moan in unison; you, from being stretched around the girth of him, and him from how easily he slides inside of you, the tight fist of your cunt wrapping deliciously around his lenght.

Pero begins to fuck you with shallow thrust and your eyes roll back. You can’t imagine how good it’s going to feel when you have both of them inside. You’re a whimpering mess beneath him, his very being towering over yours. You clench around him as his thrusts become deeper, a gush of wetness soaking him. He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, his chest heaving, he holds your gaze.

“I’m going to slide in the other one now,” he kisses your lips and pulls away. Your eyes drift to his wings that stretch again. He pulls back his hips and when he pushes back again there’s an added pressure. A mixture of moans and pained hisses bounce behind clenched teeth, your finger curling into the dirt. Pero waits for you to adjust to both of him, his voice dripping with adoration. “You’re taking me so well. So good for me, my sweet little human, always wet and ready.”

When your body relaxes around him, he presses forward. The feel of his other cock is different, that feather like texture tickles your walls, the prickles quickly melting into drops of pleasure inside you. A burst of arousal awakens in the pit of your stomach, your eyes go wide, your legs spreading further until the tendons begin to ache.

“Please, please, please,” you cry out, hands grasping his forearms. “Fuck me, fuck me—shit—what is this?”

Pero pins your hips to the ground, “Calm down, you are going to hurt yourself,” a heavy scent of lavender fills your nostrils, more liquid dripping from your core. “Like I said, it adds to the pleasure but I am only half way in, mi amor. You need to be patient so I can fuck you properly.”

Your chest heaves, lungs collapsing, you taste salt on your tongue, “Okay. . .” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Such a good girl,” he coos, but despite that, he doesn’t release your hips. “Taking two cocks at once so beautifull. I wish you could see yourself,” his thumb traces where you two connect, then he begins drawing languid circles around your clit and your entire body loosens momentarily. He bruises himself deeper with small thrust. “So close, just a little bit more and you��ll have them both inside of you.”

Pero’s large hand caresses the swell of your stomach, you smile at him with a dazed smile, “Just a little bit more.”

You know he’s fully sheathed from the sounds he make, something between a growl and a moan. The stretch you feel is immaculate. You feel so full. Both cocks twitch uncontrollably inside, the sensation shortening your breath. Sweat beads at his foreahead, fingers biting into your flesh as he tries to stop himself from ruining you completely.

When you cradle his cheeks, his eyes snap at you and he bares his teeth. It might’ve been tricks of the night, but you sweat his pupils become dark diamond before returning to normal. His wings flutter around you both protectively.

“There’s no one here,” you say calmly. “I’m all yours.”

Realization strucks him, his eyes widen, lips parting with a soft exhale. His expression makes you want to laugh. This isn’t the first time you’re telling him this, yet everytime you do he looks at you with the same awe-struck expression.

Then all hell breaks loose.

His teeth sink into your neck, his hips relentless as he hammers into you. Wet noises fill the forest. You’re left screaming his name, the burst of pleasure you receive with every stroke mind numbing. You feel so stuffed. Both cocks going in an out of you with embarrising ease, your body is on fire and something devastating begins to build up rapidly inside.

“P-Pero,” you stutter, slack-jawed. “I’m—I’m going to—”

“You feel it don’t you,” he sucks a nipple between his lips, tongue lapping the hardened peak. “The way pleasure feels endless and something that you can drown in forever. I have been feeling like that during every full moon. Finally I have someone to fall from the heavens with me—”

He hooks his arms underneath your thighs and pushes them up until your knees graze your forehead. Your spine screams in agony, yet the thickness of having both cocks inside is enough to numb you to it. He goes deeper with every snap, your eyes roll back, ever muscles goes taut right before he pushes you over the edge, your cunt gushing around him as you scream his name, over and over.

“That’s it, my sweet girl. Come for me,” he buries his head into your neck, fully exposing your body to his weight while he viciously pounds into you. “Fuck, can you feel me?”

You definitely can—but you can’t form the words. His cocks expand, throbbing and twitching as they both strike that one spot that makes you see stars brighter then the ones above.

Pero keeps his promise and spills into you, both cocks filling you until your body can’t take anymore and he drips around the edges. Your eyes flutter closed. Your mouth gasping for air, there’s so much, his cock pulsing. He gradually releases your legs, and they drop to the ground, framing his waist. Pero’s face remains buried in your neck, inhaling your scent.

“Do I smell good?” you joke.

He hums, “You smell amazing,” he answers. “You smell like me.”

You want to quip back and say it must not be that good then, but you swallow your teasing for now, admitting to yourseld that you wouldn’t want to smell like anything else.

“I never want to leave you,” he mutters. “Feels too good.”

“Then don’t,” you say, clenching around him. You whimper as you feel both cocks still hard inside of you. “Doesn’t look like coming once subdued you anyway.”

“Say it,” he peels away from your neck, grinning down at you.

“Say what?”

“That you want me to fuck you again.”

You roll your eyes. “No way.”

His grin only wides when he rolls his hips and your words break into a loud, wanton moan. “That is okay, your body speaks for you anyway.”

Before you can reply, he silences you with a kiss.

#pero tovar x reader #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar x fem!reader #the great wall fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pero tovar au #animal shapeshifter!pero tovar #hauntedhoedown

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kedsandtubesocks · 8 months

Text

In The Dead of Night

pairing: Creature!Cowboy Din Djarin x F!Reader

prompts: “I will keep hurting, I will keep killing, anything to protect you” + “it’s just a little blood”

wc: ~8k

tags & warnings: 18 + only MDNI, supernatural western AU, monster loving, biting with aphrodisiac like effects, wound licking and blood consumption, magic healing, allusion to fem!oral receiving, gore and violence, possessive + protective!Din, loosely established relationship getting firmly established (if I missed anything please let me know)

a/n: written for the haunted hoedown, I want to thank @inklore & @psychedelic-ink for taking the time to create and host such a boo-tiful event! I saw ‘haunted hoedown’ and of course my mind went straight to spooky cowboys lol my deepest thanks and love go to @skeletoncowboys & @perotovar for being the best root tootin’ cowpokes ever, thanks for reading!

Legends whispered of demons living up in the mountains. Untouched by the sprawl of the town, the myths of creatures lurking in the shadows seemed born simply as ghost stories to tell around crackling campfires.

“Heard there’s a portal to hell up there,” one of the midwives had told you. “And the things that crawl out from the mountains are sent from the devil himself.”

Those legends though were forming into a tangible blistering darkness growing on the edge of the desert. The weight of it now circles the town like a vulture.

Shrill shrieks recently began howling in the night, haunting the town. Unlike the cries of coyotes or even a skittish wild boar, the bestial distorted screeches instead seize a primal fear within the heart of the town. The echoes linger in the wind and simmer a slight unrest.

Then a few shops, along with the bank, began to get ransacked late in the night.

And recently, as of two nights ago, one of the innkeepers heading home for the evening went missing.

As you sit in the cantina, the bustling discussion brewing in the bar of course focuses only on the creatures rumored to be living in the hills.

The cantina owner, a gruff older gentleman, tells you he even saw one once.

“It flew fast overhead. Had wings that reminded me of a bat, but I couldn’t see shit ‘cause of how dark it was. But I know what I saw.”

“All these stories are all just talk! Mindless ghost stories!” Mayor Karga laughs. “There’s nothing out past those points except unforgivable terrain and some terrifying rattlesnakes. Nothing supernatural.”

The wilderness held many forms of life. From the wild creatures to the shadows within the mesquite trees, the secrets held among the desert’s stretching landscape are endless.

“I don’t know mayor,” the bartender sighs. “We all hear that sound, and whatever makes it…it ain’t human.”

“It’s probably just an injured mountain lion.” Karga argues and you hope it brings some comfort in his rationality.

“There’s no way a mountain lion did the damage we saw in the shops.” Another patron rebuttals hard and unconvinced at Karga’s logic.

The grumbles and paranoid brewing among the bar refuse to settle.

“Look,” Karga sighs. “I’ll have my best man go up there and take a look around. I’m sure he’ll be able to find the source of whatever’s been making this ruckus.”

Karga moves to the corner of the saloon. He then happily claps the shoulders of a man sitting among the shadows of the bar.

The quiet bounty hunter.

You hadn’t realized his presence and at the sight of him your heart jumps rapidly as if a jackrabbit made a home in it.

The bounty hunter had arrived many months ago.

The black bandana he wore constantly covered his face. He now almost looked like a shadowy creature from the hills. The cowboy is just as dangerous as whatever lurked among the mountain range and is just as quiet.

In the dimly lit cantina, the bandana, along with his hat, casts an even thicker shadow over his face almost obscuring his eyes.

He simply nods at Karga.

Fear immediately claws at you, sinking its talons into your soul. You stiffen in your seat at the bar.

“See! It’s settled then!” Karga announces warmly and it does calm the tense room down.

“Poor bastard,” the saloon owner says under his breath.

You find no words, only an aching panic quickly gnawing at your ribs. Your body rises up on your own. You settle your tab, grab your shawl and quietly make your way to head back to your cabin.

But before leaving, you can’t help but turn to curiously stare at the bounty hunter. For being such an intimidating force of a man, he sits unassertive against the shadow of the wall. He’s barely touched his drink and doesn’t move to talk to anyone else.

Even after agreeing to investigate, to make his way to the treacherous mountains, one seems to pay him any attention.

Then his face turns up to you.

Under the shadow of his hat, deep eyes pulled straight from the blessed soil stare at you with an unwavering attention.

A tension settles over your skin.

Someone calls out your name, breaking your trance.

“You’re not walking back alone, are ya?” The saloon’s owner asks with genuine worry. Even a somber silence casts its shadow over his older face.

“I’ll be fine.” You reassure him with a soft nod.

You can’t help but find your gaze flickering back to the cowboy.

He stares at you now with wide eyes.

Before him or any else can act, Mayor Karga slides into a chair opposite the bounty hunter immediately drawing his attention. Your attention now moves down to the satchel slung across the cowboy.

The dusty cream colored bag suddenly wiggles. Out from its pocket a tiny clawed hand faintly pops out.

Before any more terror dizzying worry can poison your mind you spin on your heels and head out of the saloon. You feel eyes clawing at the back of your head your entire walk back to the cabin.

You expect the sound of cowboy boots to follow you out. Except only the still silence of the night greets you.

Thankfully no mysterious shriek comes among the evening air, just the crunch of your boots on the gravel.

As you turn in for the night you give one last glance out the window. There at the edge of the town, where civilization bleeds dry into the wilderness, the large mountain ranges loom with their ever watchful gaze.

If something else lurks within them…

You shove the thought aside as you take a seat on the chair in the dining room. Angrily yanking your quilt up, you close your eyes.

Then, soft gentle claws scratch at your face.

Your eyes flutter open fast.

Crawling up your body and staring with the widest marble like eyes, a green strange eared creature chirps the sweetest noise.

“Hello there,” you coo back.

The baby yawns and it crinkles up his adorable wrinkled face. Moving to rest flat against you, he sighs sleepily, comforted. His presence melts you.

Out of instinct you draw him close. Settling your hands against his tiny body, you wrap him under the quilt.

“Kid, thought I told you not to go and wake her-”

“It’s fine.” You sharply cut off the deep voice calling out in the cabin.

A sigh comes. When you glance over to the open dining room area, the cowboy already begins to disarm himself, laying his various weapons into the chest that sits snuggled in the corner by the wooden extended table he built for you.

“You shouldn’t have walked back here alone.” He mutters with a hardened edge.

“You were busy.” You briskly reply, rubbing your hand on the baby’s back.

“Could’ve waited.”

“Didn’t want to.” You fire back just as hard and frustrated.

He knew you couldn’t. No one in the town knows about you and them. For their safety, and yours, this existence remains a tight barbed wired secret.

Your eyes are drawn to the cowboy’s beautiful sturdy back and you glare fierce daggers into it.

“I can feel you staring.” He mutters.

“Good.” You mutter back low, hard.

A heavier sigh trickles into the cabin and the bounty hunter turns to face you. Removing his hat and drawing his bandana down, you are greeted by the most beautiful man this wilderness could ever bless you with. He stares at you with those same eyes that silently spoke to you at the cantina.

“I know you’re upset…”

That is an understatement.

“Din…” you sigh now as an ache wide as a canyon rips across your chest. “You can’t go. You don’t even know what else is out there.”

“That’s why I have to go. I have to see and make sure.” Your cowboy replies back with patience woven in his voice.

You’re more upset than he is and you angrily blink back tears over that truth.

The wilderness is an unforgiving vastness, capable of swallowing up anything it chooses.

The thought of that scares you more than any mysterious noise or being slinking around your town.

Suddenly a warm calloused hand trails up your cheek. Even after all this time the action sparks a warm current up your spine. When you blink out of your thoughts Din stares down at you with a molten ink gaze begging for you to fall into him, to trust him.

He is considered just as mysterious and dangerous as the wilderness from which he emerged. Just in the same manner that the desert is a cautious beauty, so is Din.

A nose as sharp and defined as a canyon’s peak, cloud soft plush lips, a scruffy beard and mustache that tickle your face, he seems crafted from a dream.

Din’s thumb runs over your cheek.

Staring up at him, you soak in the sight of this myth of a man. Din sighs and leans down to rest his forehead against yours.

“You know I'm the only one who can go…”

You know he’s right and it’s why you are terrified.

Closing your eyes you lean into his hand.

“Just come back.” You whisper already hearing tears leak into your voice.

“Always do.” Din’s thick reply doesn’t help your aching heart.

As if on cue Grogu yawns, so heartwarming and sweet as he wiggles to get more comfortable in your arms. You and Din glance at the baby sleeping so peacefully against you.

“We should follow this little tadpole’s lead and get some rest too,” you mutter.

Din mutters a hum of an agreement. The three of you move to settle into the bedroom and sink into the warm quilts.

You don’t realize how exhausted you are until your eyes wearily flutter open as strong arms wrap around you from behind.

Din’s all encompassing warmth becomes a beautiful dream lulling you to sleep against his solid frame. His scent, the faintest hint of gunpowder mixing with the rosemary soap you gifted him, settles a peace within you.

The faintest pressure of his lips kisses your head, a soft good night.

In the morning, you realize it was also a goodbye.

Because when you wake up, your bed greets you cold, and Din is nowhere to be found.

The day passes by in a slow pace that sticks to your bones in a brewing terror. You try to hold grace and a steady strength, to be an unbothered mesquite against the wind.

Especially when you have a sweet little creature to watch over.

You stay at the cabin with Grogu and see the opportunity to work on the various chores you have neglected. You do some weeding, check on the fence, and watch Grogu happily chase after butterflies that flutter around your garden. It all manages to settle the brewing storm trapped in your chest, if only for a moment.

Thinking of Din facing whatever terrors haunt the town rapidly consumes you as your mind conjures up the worst scenarios. Din might be a force of a man possibly formed of smoke and shadow, still out of your grasp. Yet you want to keep him close and safe.

Little claws tugging at your leg suddenly snap you out of your thoughts.

Blinking down in surprise, Grogu glanced up at you with worried eyes. His head tilts in confusion. You effortlessly scoop him up into your arms.

“I’m sorry little tadpole,” you poke his nose and earn a shimmering giggle from the baby. “Just got lost in thought. Let’s head in for dinner, yeah?”

His excited squeak brightens your cloudy worry like a sunlight ray.

With the baby happily fed, his eyes fighting to stay awake. So you tuck him into your bed and return to cleaning up for the night.

As you close up the cabinets, wings fluttering dangerously around the cabin dance through the night air and you freeze.

Something solid collides with a hard thud onto the ground outside. A distorted croak of a noise follows.

The noise sounds close, right outside your door and you hastily move to head outside.

The lights from inside of your cabin along with the lantern on the front porch illuminate the midnight sky. Against the darkness, a looming silhouette slowly drags itself closer towards the cabin. It stops and curls over with hunched shoulders. The shape reminds you of a cornered animal hiding within itself from the light.

Then a distorted creak of your name whispers out soft as if it could be snagged on the desert’s foliage.

You sob Din’s name out into the midnight wilderness.

You rush out to him, relieved. Panic however rushes in like a broken damn when you reach him.

His body pitches forward and in a scramble you manage to steady him.

In this form he towers over you with an intimidating height. Yet this mythical monster, this tender creature, allows you to steady him into the cabin as best as you can.

After managing to sit him on the floor beside the table, the sigh of him now has you paralyzed in terror.

A gash runs against the top of Din’s head with blood trickling softly down his face. Rips and scratches can be seen on his wings even with them folded against his back. Various wounds run across his chest and his claws have blood already drying on them.

Rushing to the cabinets, you grab as many supplies as you can and spill them onto the table. You reach for the salve first to treat the wound on his head.

“What happened?!” Your hands shake as you scoop out the healing salve.

“I’m….fine.” In this form his voice creaks and sounds distorted, as if it holds the weight of all the secrets in the mountains. However, his breaths come out labored, thick, gurgled and fear pulses with a deadly toxin through your body.

His pitch black eyes wearily glaze over as he stares at you.

You have never seen him this injured and seriously wounded.

Fighting the tears becomes harder as you rub the medicine onto the gash against his head. You need to tend to his chest wounds next but it’s hard to focus with questions and dread filling your body.

A worried little noise shatters your anxious thoughts. You rapidly turn around. Grogu, wide away, waddles towards you and Din with worried wide wet eyes.

“Little love,” you say tenderly cautious. “It’s alright I’m helping your papa-“

“Wait…let the kid come.” Din interjects.

Grogu scurries closer until you simply pick him up and bring him to his father.

Din then begins speaking in clicks and chitters, gurgle-like noises only him and Grogu seem to understand. You feel out of place yet completely absorbed watching Grogu so endearingly try to grab at his father.

“Let me take the kid.” Din coughs out.

“Din.” You cautiously press.

“It’ll be alright.” He reassures with a dangerous wheeze that does not reassure your rapidly terrorized heart. But you hand him Grogu who stares at Din with glistening teary eyes.

You keep yourself busy by moving to place wraps and more salve onto Din’s wings.

Father and son exchange more click like chirps. You move to tend to his chest wounds. Then the scratches softly melt away, like magic.

You gasp and almost drop everything in your hands.

“S’all right honey.” Din calls to you low and eased. Your eyes whip up to him. Grogu’s hands are against Din’s chest and his eyes are so adorably focused. The realization settles in quickly. Your little tadpole is doing this.

The baby has healing abilities, like a legend out of a children’s bedtime story. Then again, to the town and to many others, these two creatures in your cabin would be mistaken as demons who crawled out of a nightmare. But to you they are precious, your most dearest boys.

“You two can heal?” You mutter out still stunned.

“In a way, yes.” Din replies still hoarse.

The chest wounds are all the baby can heal before his eyes flutter hazy and exhaustion takes over. Both you and Din rapidly move to steady his little body as he falls asleep from exhaustion.

“Let me take him.”

Din allows you to tuck the baby back into the quilts of your bed.

Your name floats out from Din a hoarse whisper. Hot tears bubble in your eyes as you return to your creature’s side.

“What happened?” You ask again this time hoping for an answer.

Din gives it to you.

He discovered what has been terrorizing the town.

“A group of bandits.” Din explains wearily. “They ambushed me but managed to get a few of them.”

If they were bandits, then what creatures were making those sounds at night?

The truth, you realize, sits right here on your wooden cabin floors.

“The bandits are like you.” You mutter out.

Din nods solemn, serious and your heart plummets straight into your stomach.

“What are they doing here?” You whisper low as if someone miles away could catch this conversation.

“Migrated here. Their kind jump from town to town, taking all they can and then leave.”

Your mind thinks of a plague of locus, deadly and all consuming.

“And the innkeeper?” You wearily ask.

Din shakes his head, a somber answer that needs no further explanation. Your throat closes tight.

These creatures, these bandits, would not stop or be satisfied until they get their fill.

Suddenly a soft face nuzzles into the hollow of your neck. A rumbling vibration runs up your skin and through your entire body. He’s purring. You’ve heard this sound before but this, this feels like his attempt to soothe you.

You gently wrap your arms around his large monstrous form as much as you can. Din burrows his face more against your neck as if he hopes to dig past your skin.

“Din careful, you’re injured.” The words leave you a scared, worried sob.

“I know just..need to be close to you.” His purring becomes louder, a stronger attempt to comfort you.

“I’ll keep you and the kid safe.” Din mutters in his gravel filled voice.

One of his clawed hands curls against you gently to draw you closer.

“No one will hurt you.” He vows and it rings with a conviction unwavering and hauntingly somber.

“But you got hurt.” You cough through tears thinking of his blood drying on your hand.

“Doesn’t matter. I will keep hurting, I will keep killing. Anything to protect you.”

His voice in this form seeps with danger, a venomous animalistic tone that should be a warning. But hearing those words, realizing the blood you wiped from his claws was not his…

A wave of slick dizzying heat licks up your body down to your core.

He is your protector, your shadowy creature consecrated from legends. And you love him.

Din inhales against your skin as if he smells this shift in your body. Maybe he possibly has because your cowboy begins to kiss your neck tenderly.

Fangs, dangerous sharpened fangs, lie behind those lips. Yet he kisses with a gentleness trying to cover every inch of skin you will give him.

“Din, you’re injured.” you remind him again and your bounty hunter exhales shakily.

“There’s...a way you can help heal me.” His voice now shrinks back, soft and hesitant.

“Wait.” Your thoughts clarify with a rapid sharpness. “There is?”

You would give him anything to save him, to help him.

Din draws his head up from the warmth of your neck and you find an ache missing his presence.

In any form, human or not, your cowboy is a beautiful sight. His completely consumed coal eyes avert from your watch. A bashful earnestly flickers over his ghastly features and an ache rises in you to soothe him.

Leaning forward you kiss his rough cheek with all the affection you can.

“Whatever you need,” you reassure your monster. “I’m yours Din.”

His body moves rapidly. His large form curls against you, a towering shadow. Din dives his face back to your neck as he starts to burrow his nose against your skin.

Suddenly his tongue draws out and begins to lick at you. It’s long, and you remember how snakelike it was when you first saw it. Your eyes close as you wonder if this is his attempt at soothing you once more.

Then he bites into the base of your neck and your eyes snap open wide.

Instinctively, like an animal caught in a trap, your body lurches forward. Pain sharply runs up your neck and warm liquid trickles onto your skin.

Then, Din begins to suck.

He starts to suck and drink from your blood.

Your heart hammers a thunderous drumming in your ears. You have never done this with him. You’ve been intimate with your cowboy before and never shy away from his more createrous form.

But… the secret cavern of your hearts, not even wanting to face this truth yourself, a part of you wondered with a dangerous temptation what it would be like to be intimate with Din in this form.

Your mind tries to steady itself on this new frontier you are about to explore. Suddenly a sharp wave of arousal washes over you so fast your eyes roll back.

Your body goes slack in Din’s large arms while a blissful moan escapes you.

“Shh…” Din mutters a low gurgle against your skin. “Not too loud.”

You can’t wake the babe asleep in the other room and this is the last solid thought you hold onto.

Because your mind quickly melts as if a desert mirage has blurred your reality. A heated fever burns across your skin. So much slick pools between your legs that you feel it dripping. Now your body thrashes with the pleasure of wanting to get closer to Din as much as you can. You press your lips tight to stay silent.

Din’s sharp fangs nip at your skin. He rapidly alternates between drinking your blood and licking at the wound.

Your mouth waters in a way you didn’t think pleasure could draw this reaction out of you. Soaked in this lust, you feel intoxicated and you don’t seem to be the only one.

Din rapidly laps at your blood and hums an animalistic noise that rages through your entire body.

“Taste so good.” Your cowboy slurs barely focused himself. “Knew you’d taste s’good.”

Pleasure builders faster and faster now. Your legs twitch trying to relieve the aching arousal but you don’t want this to stop. It’s delicious, pure pleasure, one that melts the skin off your bones and transcends you into a sacredness you can’t describe. Because this tastes sacred in both a delicious and dangerous way.

“Din.” You quietly moan his name out and he clutches onto you harder as you feel his own body beginning to grin against you.

Din sucks harder, fervently, and doubles the dizzying heat surging through you.

You’re getting close. The way your mind teeters between consciousness and bliss it feels like you are tiptoeing on the edge of a cavern’s abyss and will fall in at any moment.

Suddenly Din pulls away from your neck. The cold air prickles against your skin and a chill crawls up your body.

“Wha-” you slur your question. But before you can ask, the sight of Din steals your breath and thoughts.

His shoulders heave heavy and rise with rapid breathing. His obsidian eyes gleam wild and raw, almost possessive as he stares down at your body. His fangs, his beautifully monstrous maw is soaked with blood, your blood.

Before you can process this sight, your bounty hunter acts with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. His claws tear apart your night gown undergarments with a sounding rip.

You feel a surprise squeak die in the back of your throat.

This creature of a cowboy flings himself down between your legs with a feral franticness, a being possessed.

Then that long tongue of his takes a smooth swipe up your soaked folds. Your body shakes, falling into the abyss. Your eyes roll back as numbing black out pleasure swallows you whole.

The shop thankfully has been quiet all day. The shop owner, Annalise, and her husband left for the nearby town to visit family. So they told you. But you knew it was fear, the same fear driving out more and more of the town.

An eerie emptiness has settled among the shops as if ghosts themselves have moved into their vacancy. The town slowly rots away into a bone like shell of itself. Even the dread has begun leaking into you.

As you currently repair a skirt, the gentle silence that once comforted you itches your skin with an edge of unease .

The day is almost over. That comfort alone keeps you sturdy among the waves of worry.

A small thud of something falling comes. Then a little giggle follows.

Amusement tugs at your lips. Setting your work down you go investigate the scene of the crime.

There off to the side, Grogu sits happily tangled up in various colors of yarn. He must have pulled them down trying to climb up on the shelves here behind the counter.

Grogu with his angelic black eyes blinks up at you with red yarn hanging off his strange ears. He giggles again so playfully as he beams up at you. The baby begins babbling, holding up more of the yarn to show you his handiwork.

“Yes I see you.” You tease back.

Kneeling down to sit on the floor with him, you start gently untangling this adorable mess.

“You’re always just going to be my little trouble maker, aren’t you?” You fondly say mainly to yourself. Yet Grogu chirps a noise sounding like an agreement.

He came into your life this exact same way.

With a sneaky entrance and a giggle, you had first found this strange little creature in your garden. From that moment seeing his wide midnight eyes blink up at you with herbs in his mouth, your life has never been the same. But it has been blown into a beautiful new direction with such ease you never want to change.

“Definitely grateful Annalise isn’t here now.” You tell Grogu as he wiggles his arms watching your move and shift the yarn. “She wouldn’t appreciate you messing with her very meticulous and organized yarn arrangement.”

Of course she wouldn’t have appreciated seeing this strange sweet babe of a creature. It’s why whoever kept the baby had him hidden in bags or under cloaks.

Having him here with you at the tailor shop, sitting so freely on the floor, you understand walks a fine dangerous line, even with the vacant town.

But you wanted to keep your sweet little tadpole close to you more than ever.

“I’m also grateful your papa is getting some rest.” A distant wistful tone floats into your voice.

“Mweh.” Grogu replies back in his strange bell-like voice.

Since he arrived home from the bandits ambush three days ago, Din has slept under the blankets of your bed.

His continuous slumber reminds you vaguely of bears that rest in their caves during the winter. You wonder if the same goes for Din. After such a difficult fight, sleep and rest provide an ultimate form of healing.

When you first peeked under the blankets to check on Din, you found him resting peacefully and fully human. Now with a soft kiss goodbye to your cowboy every morning, you let him sleep and heal.

Grogu, as mischievous as he is, still is his father’s son. He begins helping you with the yarn by carrying as much as he can in his little arms. You warmly thank him and Grogu beams proudly as he continues wiggling out of the tangles.

The door to the shop creaks open.

Sundown approaches fast. Who could be coming in at this late in the day?

“Stay here and don’t move.” You softly tell Grogu with a pat to his head. You rise to greet the customers.

Instead you discover newcomers, strangers you do not know, and it’s a group of them.

Their leader, a man with sharp eyes saunters towards your counter. A deadly shift circulates in the air the way it does when a viper is spotted slithering across the sands.

“Why ‘ello there lovely.” The stranger coos with a disgusting seductive undertone that has you frowning.

Bandits, these have to be the bandits Din spoke of.

“Can I help you?” You ask sharp.

The leader’s lips twitch playful.

“Name’s Vane,” he introduces himself. “Didn’t think I’d find someone as lovely as you here.”

You stay quiet, staring hard.

“You know, it’s polite manners to introduce yourself.” The bandit named Vane offers coyly almost teasingly. His comrades snicker and you again stay silent.

You’ve seen your share of bandits that have rode into town. But these men infesting your tailor shop are not like the others. That thought alone infects you with a petrifying venom.

“What do you want? There’s nothing here you all could possibly need.” You argue steady and calm..

“See, that’s where ya wrong lovely.” Vane purrs with a gleam in his eyes. He takes deep sniffs once and twice.

His face melts into a deeper pleased smile.

“There’s something very important here.”

Something inside of you screams to scoop the baby into your arms and flee. Din gifted you a beautiful dagger months ago. You know it’s not much but threatening a weapon might be your next option.

“Aw,” one of the bandits frowns at you. “What’s the sad face for, pretty?”

“I need you all to leave.” Gathering all your strength you try standing your ground even.

They laugh wild cackles that put the crows to shame and your stomach twists sick with a tangible dread.

“Fellas, why don’t you do as the lady says and leave.”

Mayor Karga’s voice floats into the shop, a sturdy safeline. The bandits all turn in surprise at the new intruder who stares at them hard and determined.

“Ah, Mayor Karga! Good to see ya!” The bandit named Vane greets him.

“Why don’t we have our reunion somewhere else.” Karga urges firm.

Then his eyes turn to you with golden reassurance and he nods.

“Why don’t you head on home for the night?”

All you can do is nod back. Falling to the floor, you scramble and gather Grogu into your satchel. Of course the baby, just like his father, thankfully stays close to you.

“It’s alright,” you softly comfort him as you kiss the top of his fuzzy sweet head. “We’ll be home soon.”

You rise up and find the bandits have disappeared. So caught up in your panic and trying to reassure Grogu you didn't even hear or notice their exit.

For some reason, their absence terrifies you more.

When you step outside the town is bathed in dusk’s glow. Someone calls out your name.

There a few steps away Mayor Karga grins at you.

“I apologize for that encounter earlier. Might I escort you home? I’d like to make sure you make it back safe.”

You’re grateful for your town’s mayor. A steadfast calm and sturdy soul whose company you gladly accept.

“Where did the bandits go?” You cautiously ask.

“How did you know they were bandits?” Karga now curiously asks you.

“A good guess,” you sleepily reply back. “Haven’t seen them around town before.”

Thankfully the answer appeases Karga enough as he sighs.

“I know the town believes it’s some type of… monster living in the mountains that’s been disrupting the town. But I have no doubt it’s really those bandits.”

A heaviness shit in your chest as you wish you could agree that both possibilities are true.

“Now ain’t that just rude? Accusing us of somethin’ you have no proof of.”

Vane’s shrill voice slices through the ghost town and it steals the air from your lungs.

When you and Karga turn around the bandit already holds his pistol drawn with a coy eased expression.

“Just at least let the shop keeper go. This is between us.” Karga snaps fiercely as his hand rests now on his own gun.

“Actually, that pretty ‘lil thing is more interesting than you Mister Mayor.” Vane’s smile oozes with disgusting glee.

Boots crunch on the path in front of you and when you whip back forward, more bandits have arrived circling you and the Mayor like a pack of coyotes ready to strike.

“I’ll draw their fire, you run. Run as fast as you can.” Karga whispers low panicked.

The loud bang of a shot pierces the early evening.

You almost jump out of your skin hearing the gun go off. But one of the bandits drops flat onto the gravel path.

An unearthly hollowness snaps the air tight. Everyone, including yourself, rapidly tries to find the new gunslinger.

Another gunshot comes.

Another bandit collapses dead.

“Come out ‘ere!” One of the bandits roars. “Show yourself ya fucking coward!”

Materializing from the shadows himself, Din simply struts out from between the cover of two buildings. His rifle is drawn.

He’s here. Your cowboy, your bounty hunter, is awake and he’s here.

Din has never looked as striking and beautiful as he does now. A force of pure steeled power and precision he stands broad, intimidating. His black bandana hides his face. But from under the cover of his hat his eyes glare blazing furious fires.

“Your fight is with me.” Din snarls to Vane, fierce yet deadly composed.

“You damn BASTARD!” Vane barks back.

The gun fight erupts in a blink and flurry of bullets. A terrified scream escapes you before you can even stop it. But with chaos and terror swirling all around, you summon all the courage you have left.

You draw the satchel housing Grogu close to your chest and you run for cover.

Bullets fly in screeching fury and your heart rages fast within its cage in your chest. You want to help Din. But you need to protect the baby.

A voice sounding so close to Din’s screams, urges, inside of you to run.

So you flee as fast as you can from the town. You imagine wings sprout from your feet and carry you to your safe harbor in the wilderness. The bullets firing grows distant. Your cabin begins peeking over the horizon against the watercolor sunset bleeding into the early night sky.

Safety beckons you. It is right there just at your grasp.

A monsterous screech suddenly shatters the peace around your cabin.

The flapping of wings, furious and loud swoop in the wind and, out of instinct, you lean down away from the sky and cover Grogu.

Then it happens in a fast collapse.

Something sharp slices across your shoulder. Pain shoots through your body fast and unforgiving. You scream, faltering in your steps. Grogu cries out in a concerned sob but you hold him tighter refusing to let whatever took a swipe at you get the baby.

A loud thud lands. When you glance up, a creature rises before you.

His appearance vaguely reminded you of Din. Except this creature with a sharp beak and covered in scales is thinner in size compared to your cowboy.

“Thought you could hide from me, did ya?” The distorted voice of Vane seethes at you.

His shoulders and wings hunch in a terrifying tension suggesting he can strike at any moment. However, crimson drips down his side and colors the dirt path. He’s injured.

“But it’s hard to hide when y’er damn bastard mate’s smell is all over ya!” Vane hisses through gritted jagged rotting teeth.

Grogu wiggles in your arms almost in a determined fidget. But you stay frozen before the bandit, a jackrabbit staring down its hunter.

In this life, in this harsh wilderness you exist within, you have faced danger in their various forms. You think of the first time you encountered Din this way. When you first saw him, a creature from the dark shadows, it reminded you of how small and human you are.

Except now, you wonder if this is pure terror you face.

“M’gonna rippin’ you and that babe apart.” Vane grins with a rotting smile.

Like a released spring, the bandit flings himself towards you.

A blur of a force collides fast into Vane before the bandit can even reach you.

In his creature state Din slams Vane violently down into the dirt. He howls at the bandit, his fanged jaws open wide in a frightening threat.

This fight, just like the shoot out that broke out, erupts in a blink.

However, unlike the gunfight, your eyes fall under a spell and cannot look away.

The sight of these two creatures doesn’t seem possible. Yet, the snarling slash of teeth, the rapid movements, it all seems more real and raw more than anything you have ever seen.

Larger and healthier in his form, Din wrestles Vane down with a smooth ease. Sharpened claws swipe at the other with the intent to kill. The two brawl hard picking up dust and dirt in the evening sky.

Suddenly, Din shifts. In that moment he grasps Vane in his arms and towers over the bandit. Then Din digs his talons into Vane. With the same effort you have seen Din take when he peels oranges, he rips off one of Vane’s wings.

The action is visceral, unholy and Vane screams in absolute agony rattling your bones.

But you have never been more mesmerized by your cowboy.

Like a hawk that’s captured its prey, Din gathers Vane, along with the ripped appendage, into his grasp and takes flight.

Vane’s screeches, gurgled and violent. Din roars back a bellow you think shakes the mountains to their base.

The monstrous sounds echo into the air. Yet they grow further and further away. You even try to follow Din’s flight in the air. But, the shade of the sunset has faded from its tangerine warmth into a fully stretched out faint blue bleeding into midnight. The edges of the deep dark sky swallows any sign of Din.

Then silence falls.

Staring at the mountains against the sky’s tapestry you hope to catch even a glimpse of Din or of any movement.

Grogu cries a worried chirp in your arms and it breaks your gaze.

You need to get him inside, see if he has any injuries.

With the door open to listen for Din, to hope and pray he comes back, you take Grogu out of the satchel and begin checking him over. Babbling in his own clicks and chirps, Grogu fidgets with a worried frown on his sweet wrinkly face. His little clawed hand reaches out to you with a stubborn stretch.

“Hold still, little tadpole.” You breathlessly plead with him. A heaviness slowly creeps into your legs as if anchors have been tied around them.

The rush of boots run across your patio. When you whip your attention to the open doorway, Din rapidly is hurrying inside.

In his human state, his clothes are torn from the fight and blood already dries all over him.

Those wonderful eyes of his stare wide and petrified.

In fast steps Din rushes to your side.

“Are you alright?!” You croak out trying to breathe through the dizzying relief of seeing your bounty hunter home and alive.

“Your shoulder!” Din snaps. “You should be resting!”

In the whirlwind of adrenaline and panic you had forgotten about your shoulder. At his comment, you fully become aware of the stinging wound and the blood soaking your blouse to your body.

“It’s just a little blood and doesn’t feel deep. I’m alright.” You mutter reassuring Din who already begins inspecting your shoulder.

Exhaustion and the rush of this day, of this week, however causes your legs to buckle. Hastily Din’s sturdy hands catch you while you want to hiss at your body for betraying you.

“What did I say? You need to rest.” He growls.

You can’t fight him anymore, not when he guides you with tender sturdy hands to rest.

Your mind begins to feel thick and heavy, like you are trekking through a mud pit. You float in and out of your thoughts.

“I apologize for this.” Din’s sudden voice comes softly beside you and then a rip follows.

He tore your blouse to reach the wound.

A soft pad of a fabric begins to clean your wound and you hiss at the jolt of pain.

“I know,” Din soothes. “It’ll be over soon.”

All you can do is nod.

You can’t make sense of how much time has passed or how long you’ve even been sitting on the chair. It feels as if years have been crammed into this short day, as if lifetimes have been stitched into this past week.

Out of your haze, you think of the baby and ask where he is.

“Asleep. Took me a bit to get him to bed. Knew he was fighting me to stay up and make sure we were alright.”

Your lips twitch with deep love for that small creature you now hold in your heart as your own.

“He’s stubborn like his papa.” You mutter back with a hint of amusement.

Din however stays quiet.

A heaviness as thick as a thunderstorm hangs in the hush of your cabin.

Focusing out of your hazy thoughts, you worry Din is injured and refusing to tell you. When you are about to ask, Din speaks first by calling out your name.

“I am sorry… for putting you in danger.” A hoarse emotion has struck its barbs into your bounty hunter.

“For frightening you.” Din continues, his voice growing distant and you worried might get caught on the fence outside the cabin.

“And…for being a monster.” His voice cracks, shattering your heart within its wake.

You blink through tears to where Din sits beside you.

“The things I did, what you saw...” His eyes refuse to meet yours.

Torment furrows his brows and an ancient ache hardens over his handsome features. For being someone who faced bloodshed and pain, who existed in a split life so feared by many, his heart is so tender and golden.

“You could never frighten me.” You whisper tear soaked.

So you bare your heart before him.

He’s protected you, cared for you, showed you a tenderness you believed would never find you.

You think of those who love the mountains, love the beauty and the terror carved into the peaks. You will love Din the same until the very last of your days.

You will love his pain, his claws and his golden heart.

Even at hearing your heart being spilled before him, Din shakes his head adamantly stubborn.

“Do you remember when you came and checked on me before that big storm came?” You begin.

Back then, you were convinced this hardened bounty hunter with his hard glare hated you. Yet he showed up with a blanket full of supplies. Even after much urging on your part, him and the baby stayed in your cabin to pass the storm.

Din finally glances at you with his rich earth eyes and he nods.

“That was when I knew I wanted to be yours.” You earnestly tell him.

Even knowing what he was, after seeing the core of who Din is, a gentle, protective and honorable man - you wanted so badly to be his.

“Will you let yourself be mine? Can I love you the way you love me?” This love rips apart your voice, cracks you raw and open.

Din leans forward and kisses you. The smell of dust and his sweat overwhelm your senses. The kiss is hasty, more desperate than anything as his lips continue to seek yours. You already want to mold yourself to him. Yet as fast as he kissed you, Din draws back to simply lay his face against yours. He softly rubs his lovely nose to yours.

“I am yours. Will always be yours.” The thick whisper of his voice holds the depth and implications of a thousand lifetimes.

You press back against him wondering if the two you will simply mold into one.

But when you shift ever slightly a sharp stab of pain runs across your shoulder and you flinch in pain. Din of course doesn’t miss this.

He cautiously says your name, but you reassure him again you’re fine.

“No.” He firmly cuts you off. “You’re not.”

You sigh knowing there is no hope in fighting your cowboy.

“I…there’s a way I can heal you.” He cautiously explains.

You think of how you helped heal Din. Even through the pain and exhaustion of the day, a simmering curiosity bubbles within you.

You stare deeply into his earthen eyes. “I trust you.”

His eyes widen for a fracture of a moment before he nods ever so reverently at your words. With tender delicate hands he maneuvers your face to expose your sounder. It keeps your attention forward.

Din’s hair tickles your skin as does his soft heated breath. Suddenly his tongue licks a gentle swipe across the wound.

Every inch of you tightens as well as collapses all at once. You dare not move, and wonder if you are even breathing.

His tongue licks through the blood, across the scratch and you find no pain comes from the contact. He’s delicate, almost kitten-like. Slowly emerging like an early morning fog, a tranquil haze falls over you in a soothing like manner.

It’s beautiful, tender and blissfully intoxicating having him tend to you like this. You start wondering if maybe some part of you will arrive at a realization of horror. Yet you find no terror, or disgust within yourself. Only adoration and gratitude fill your body. Dreamily, your hand even begins to run through Din’s soft hair. His tongue swipes and swipes with reverent warmth lulling you.

All too soon suddenly Din kisses your shoulder, your bare fully healed shoulder.

That snaps you wide awake and you scramble turning towards Din. He sleepily stares at you with a peaceful gleam. A soft crimson faintly colors his plush lips and you understand it’s your blood. The image of him in his creature form flutters back to your mind. Your blood coated his mouth then too.

No fear rose at the sight even then and it does not rise now. You instead move your hand to stroke his cheek.

Din’s eyes shut blissfully as he melts at your touch.

“How…how is it possible?” You have to ask.

“It only works with a select few.” Din explains quietly. “Just with those we love, who we see as our own.”

It’s why Grogu was able to heal him. And it made sense why the baby seemed so stubborn earlier about reaching out to you. It’s why you could heal Din. You even realize it’s why there is no wound from where he bit you days ago.

Love heals - a beautiful remedy and truth old as the wilderness itself. That soft understanding greets you just as kind as the morning breeze.

You lean forward to embrace Din. Quick as ever he draws you into his arms first. Safe and solid your cowboy’s warmth, you thank him.

You thank him for healing you and for so much more.

The legends of the mountains spoke of indescribable horrors that crawled among their caverns. However out of the wilderness, out from those shadows, Din was brought to you.

And for that, you will always be eternally grateful

Your cabin was your own personal ghost town before you found a mysterious creature adorably rummaging around your garden. Now Din and his son fill every space of your life with love. Your days are warm, even in the shadows. Even with the terror and fear, you consecrate yourself to this life, burrow your roots into it.

Yes, your cabin is now filled with monsters, creatures reminding you of the secrets that the wilderness shadows of the wilderness. They are indeed ghost stories brought to life.

But they are yours. You will house their secrets, become the desert itself and make your heart a wild fortress for Din and the baby to find refuge, to find peace.

And you will lovingly welcome them home with your arms stretched open wide and vast as the mountain range.

#this is maybe the most self indulgent piece I’ve written and I’m petrified of posting this but oh well time to be brave I guess lol 🤡#cheers to the haunted hoedown! okay I’m posting this and fleeing lol #haunted hoedown #hauntedhoedown #cowboy din djarin #din djarin x reader #cowboy take me away tag #ask to tag #Din 🩶

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always-andromeda · 8 months

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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ DBF!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 4801

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + once is not enough + “Do you like when I touch you like this? I can keep going if you want me to.”

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ Sorry for the massive gap in posting fics! I've been getting into the swing of things with school and I wanted to do these justice instead of rushing through them!! I also want to preface this one by acknowledging that some folks hate this trope and if that’s the case…please don’t leave me hate on it. I am merely a twenty-two year old baby living her older man fantasy (cue that tiktok of Fred Armisen going “I’m sowwy. I’m a widdle baby.” 🥺)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact!!) fingering, unprotected sex, age gap (reader is in her twenties, Joel is in his forties), slight voyeurism, slight dacryphilia, pet names (darlin’, honey, sweetheart, girl), nothing else I can think of!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

You'd come home from college hoping for some relaxation over summer break. Maybe you'd catch up with family and some old friends. Or maybe you'd find yourself. The opportunities were endless and you were excited. At least until Joel waltzed into the picture.

The last time you remembered seeing him was your going away party before you moved away for college. He'd been one of the many who clapped you on the back and congratulated you on getting into your school of choice. And when he'd looked at you with those soft eyes and said sentimentally that he was so proud of you...you had no chance at stopping the butterflies that went wild in your stomach.

His praise hit differently.

It had reminded you of a younger version of yourself who'd idolized the man. Your own father was decent. But Joel was the best. Joel was the one you'd call when you ran into trouble and he'd been keeping your secrets for as long as you could remember.

The first time you'd gotten blackout drunk during your senior year, he drove you back to his house and let you shake off the hangover before sending you back home the next morning without a word to your dad.

When your ex-boyfriend dumped you over text, who else was there to save the day but Joel Miller? With a stack of rented eighties action films and an excess of coupons for a local pizza place, Joel gave you a night that felt normal.

If you'd been alone, you might've sulked and sobbed over that shithead. But in his own brooding way, Joel proved that you were worth more than that. Part of you had been a little in love with him for it.

So, as he'd wished you well on your journey into college, you decided you'd let go of that frivolous teenage fixation. Instead, Joel was reduced to an aspiration. A blueprint for the kind of guy you wanted to be with. A blueprint that had proven to be nearly impossible to fulfill.

To your shock and surprise, most college guys in their twenties couldn't keep up with the maturity of a man who was rapidly approaching his forties. You couldn't help but feel a little repulsed by your new dating pool. Which propelled you to focus more on your studies...which only stressed you out even more. By the time finals came around, you were on the brink of tearing your hair out.

This summer was well earned. And you hated to admit that you'd been a little too enthusiastic to possibly see Joel again.

You hadn't necessarily been looking for Joel's attention. Upon your homecoming, your parents have invited him and a few other family friends over for a barbecue. It should've been a night of ice cold beers and suburban simplicity. But the itinerary suddenly changed once you got some time alone with him.

Standing on the back porch, you watched your parents and their other friends laugh and roast marshmallows over the fire pit on the lawn. As you rested against the wooden railing, you nursed a beer; your third one that night.

Joel emerged from the sliding glass back door with a bear of his own and took a place beside you on the deck.

As doting as ever, he gestured to your drink and asked, "How many of those have you had tonight?"

"Only a few."

Joel raised an eyebrow.

"Easy, old man," you giggled. "I've spaced them out. So I'm not drunk. Just a little tipsy."

"Ah, so I take it that college taught you how to handle your alcohol better, huh?"

You smacked his shoulder which earned a laugh from him. When his head turned, you got a real good look at him. He'd hardly changed save for a few stray silver hairs and his facial hair being a little scruffier. If anything, those changes only made him that much more enthralling.

So enthralling that it was nearly impossible to pay attention to his small talk. He did what everyone else did. Asked about your classes, your major, what you wanted to do with your degree after graduating. You answered each question with quick answers, eager to get to something more nitty gritty. Because that was what you appreciated Joel most for: his ability to cut through the pointless fat and treat you like an adult. Something that you were sorely missing after only a few days back at home.

You'd taken a long swig of your beer before throwing caution to the wind. "So, Joel?" he looked over at you with raised brows. Then you asked, "You seein' anyone?"

His chest rumbled with a small laugh before he took a sip of her own beer. With his lips pursed around the mouth of the bottle and his eyes crinkled, he tried to conceal his amusement. "Nope," he replied with an air of casualty. "How about you, darlin'? You breakin' those college boys' hearts?"

You scoffed, "No, more like they're breakin' mine."

His brow creased with concern. "Do I need to break some bones?"

"As kind as that sounds...I wouldn't have anybody in particular to send ya to."

That caught his attention. "You mean you're not seeing anybody?"

Not wanting to sound like a complete loser, you explained, "I tried to go on a few dates at the start of the semester. But none of them really worked out. They just weren't my type."

A note of silence passed over you two before Joel wondered, "What would you say is your type, darlin'?"

You wished Joel hadn't been staring at you, waiting for your answer. He had to know this was dangerous territory. He had to know that it wasn't an easy thing to casually admit; the fact that you searched for him in every single man you'd gone out with.

"Oh, you know..." you trailed off wearily. "Intelligent, strong-willed, no nonsense...but with a good sense of humor...mature–"

"Mature?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You thought of an explanation quickly, "Yeah. Like...someone who's developed..." Joel eyed you strangely. "...in the mind, I mean. I don't want a guy who I have to practically train before I feel like I could date him."

Joel nodded thoughtfully before teasing, "Well, honey, if you're looking for a mature man...I think a college campus is one of the worst places you could've picked to look."

"Where should I start looking instead?"

His next words seemed to be testing the waters. "Maybe...maybe you should be lookin' a little closer to home."

For the first time you got the idea that it could be possible. He'd only ever looked at you straight with no inkling of duplicity. But now his eyes were going up and down, taking you in like he hadn't ever looked at you right before.

"How close are you thinking?" you asked.

Tipping his head back, Joel drank the last sip of his beer and you watched his Adam's apple bob. Watched a drop of the liquid gold fall from the corner of his mouth before disappearing into his beard. Watched as he set the bottle down on the handrail and straightened himself out.

Then he replied just loud enough for only you to hear, "Maybe the kitchen."

The descent into deviance came fast. From the moment you leaned back against the kitchen counter, Joel's lips were on yours. He tasted like the hops from his drink and smelled woody, it was a distinctly masculine combination that had made you clench your thighs together.

With his hand on the back of your neck, he guided you through the kiss in only the way he could and ensured that it ended before you were ready for it to. His nose bumped against yours as he searched your glazed over expression for any kind of reluctance.

"You sure you want this, darlin'?"

"Fuck, yes. Please," you pleaded breathlessly.

Once he let out a little laugh, he turned you around and you braced yourself on the counter. Starting below your ear, Joel trailed down your neck and along your shoulder. One of his hands was making a similar journey from your hip right up to one of your tits.

You gasped as he squeezed the mound of flesh gently and you had never been more glad to have taken off your bra earlier on in the day. Because Joel seemed incredibly pleased feeling the full weight of your tit in his hand, all warm and willing to be played with.

His other hand went the opposite direction. Down, down, down it went until it was cupping your sex over your jeans. Which were becoming increasingly uncomfortable as you squirmed in a fruitless attempt to find friction. Middle finger running up the seam of your jeans, you knew that if you were two layers lighter, he'd be so close to dipping into your folds. He was so close it could've driven you insane.

His lips were by your ear again when he whispered, "Do you like when I touch you like this?"

Back pressed flat against his heaving chest, you nodded.

Joel toyed with your zipper. "I can keep going if you want me to..."

You nodded once more and whined, "Please, Joel, please. Keep going."

And keep going he did. He kept going until you'd finished on his fingers twice. The first orgasm had been hard and quick, intensified by two of his thick fingers fucking you through it. Nothing could be done to conceal the sticky sounds of your cunt clenching around his digits nor the sound of you panting as you came down from the high.

With every ounce of your being you hoped and prayed that you wouldn't be interrupted. Because there was no normal excuse for Joel having his hand down your pants and his erection poking into your back. None whatsoever. And besides, getting caught meant ruining your parent's suburban simplicity.

So, for the second climax, Joel clapped a hand over your mouth and murmured, "Let it all out, honey. Don't worry, no one'll hear. I promise." You followed his directions to a T; practically shrieking when this climax crept up on you and washed over you in a relentless wave that had your thighs trembling and your back arching. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

Because when Joel pulled his hand out of your pants and wiped them off on his own jeans, all you wanted was more. Your body ached with that want.

As much as you knew that Joel was just looking out for you both, it felt like he was deliberately being mean when he mumbled, "Better get back out there before folks get suspicious."

With a quick peck and a light tap on your ass, Joel sent you off. Slick still plastering your underwear to your needy pussy, you waltzed back outside on shaky legs.

And it seemed like your mind spent every waking second thinking about it; about him. His voice, his hands, his scent, his body. Each aspect on its own could make you wet all over again. But all together? He turned you into a goddamn mess.

You couldn't shake him. Like an ever present itch, Joel had etched himself into your bones, ruining you for anyone else. And he made it all the more difficult to forget about him in the aftermath. It astounded you how Joel could shamelessly hang around your dad after that night, offering to help out with his various projects before sitting in your living room and watching baseball with him, just feet away from where Joel had defiled you. That was the brazen behavior that made you hide away in your room for that first week.

The night your parents decided to go out on an impromptu date, you were relieved. With some time alone to think and breathe, you'd sort yourself out. Tonight was reserved as a Joel Miller free evening.

Throwing yourself on the couch, you turned on some show you'd abandoned ages ago. You couldn't quite remember the majority of the plot threads. But that didn't really matter anyways. You doubted you could've scrapped together the mental awareness anyways. All of it was focused on him.

No matter how much you tried to distract yourself, your mind wandered back to him. The promise of his hard cock and his firm hands. Every part of him still had you hypnotized.

Not even your own hand could break that. For a good few minutes you fruitlessly played with yourself. You felt silly and almost pitiful trying to replicate the motions Joel had made. But it wasn't the motions you weren't getting right. It was the feeling. It was the thickness of just his middle finger separating your folds before squeezing your lips between three digits. It was his breath on your neck and his words egging you on. It was the edge of danger. It was the fact that he shouldn't have been able to stir up all of that arousal within you. And it was the fact that he did regardless.

You could never replicate that on your own.

Ruined. Fucking ruined.

Too lazy to get up and grab your vibrator from your room upstairs to help you along, you laid back and whined pathetically, relieved you had the house to yourself. But some

higher power had to be at play and had a fucked up sense of humor.

"What the hell are you doin'?"

Head snapping up, you spot the one man you didn't want to see ever again standing in the archway leading into the living room.

Joel Miller had his brow arched like this was some sort of surprise. Like you were on his couch in his living room in his house playing with his–

Before you let yourself finish the thought, you spoke, anger flooding your tone, "What the hell are you doing here? My dad isn't home, so what do you want?"

Joel leaned against the archway casually, still with an air of confidence that felt entirely too cocky. "I know," he shot back. "He said he and your mom would be out late tonight.

Gave me a spare key earlier and asked if I'd check in on ya on my way home."

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you responded quickly, "Well...you've checked in. I'm fine. Thank you."

And you know the second the words leave your lips that Joel doesn't believe them. He doesn't move. Instead, he surveys your figure sprawled on the length of the couch. Of course Joel is smart enough to infer your guilt. There's almost no innocent reason for your legs to be spread so wide, for your hair to already be so mussed up.

He tilted his head slightly and you knew he was putting the pieces together and picturing you writhing against that couch minutes before.

Finally, he concluded, "You don't seem all that fine, honey."

"I'm perfectly alright. I don't need anything else from you, Joel," you spoke his name pointedly, almost a warning against whatever other ideas he was concocting.

Silence. And you partially hoped that would be the end of it.

Instead he ambles further into the room before seating himself near your feet and gazing across at you. "Are we gonna talk about it at all?"

His furrowed brow threatened to make you fold. But you were determined to stay strong, licking your lips and starting shakily, "I don't see the point. What happened was a one time thing and...I don't want it to happen again."

"You don't want it happening? Or it shouldn't happen?"

"Is there really that much of a difference?"

"There's a massive difference. Because one suggests that you want it to happen again."

"It shouldn't happen, Joel," you answered solidly.

"Then tell me you haven't thought about it once since the other night." Testing the waters, he planted a hand between your knees and slid further up the couch, closer to you. "Tell me that you haven't been desperate to come like that again," he ordered.

"Joel–"

"Ah," he tutted. "Just tell me and I'll be on my way."

You're angry and already aroused. Because he knows that you can't say it. He knows you can't lie to him like that and that fact makes you feel more vulnerable than ever.

"I think about you all the time," you admitted carefully. "So much that it scares me."

At that, Joel's stare softened and he smiled sentimentally. "Me too, darlin'. Me too." It ignited that familiar warmth in your core. The kind that craved being kindled and grown until it could consume you.

"Is that what you were doing just now? Thinkin' of me?" he asked, eye flickering down to the crumpled front of your pajama shorts.

You could only nod.

"Did you get off?"

This time you shook your head, tears pricking at your eyes. You expected him to laugh at the miserable little confession. Teasing and poking fun had always been part of his personality and – more importantly – part of the casual relationship you'd once shared with him.

He complicated it even further as he cooed with concern, "Oh, little darlin', why not?" It was obvious that shyness would no longer cut it. He wanted words; wanted all of the gory details of just how much damage he'd done with only a few minutes.

So you indulged him.

"Because it wasn't you. I can think about you...but that doesn't replace you actually being there."

Joel's cockiness returned as he replied, "You're damn right it doesn't. But we can fix that, right?"

Nodding again, you found yourself treading dangerous waters once more. But this time you didn't mind it all that much. It felt natural when Joel slotted his body between your legs. The warmth emanating from his broad chest immediately encased you; made you feel undeniably safe.

This time his kiss was slow, soaking up the time he knew he now had. The first time he touched you, it seemed like a favor. A reprieve from dozens of disappointments from those pesky college boys. This time, however, it was entirely decadent. It was a strange sort of care and days of tension being channeled into a full on make out session that clogged your senses like molasses.

Joel made his way down your jaw and as soon as his mouth touched down on your neck, he was sucking a mark that would no doubt be noticed by your parents before too long. That was worth the risk to have his hot breath fanning across your skin as he kissed the bruising skin better.

He didn't have to say it, but you knew that he made the mark on purpose. And you couldn't even scold him for it. Deep down, you wanted to remember this for a while. You wanted to keep him like a secret. You wanted to look at it and know that he was the only one who could do this to you.

Joel's voice rasped beside your ear, "You know what I did after you left that night?"

"Hm?"

"You made me so hard that it wouldn't go away on its own. I had to take care of it all by myself."

"Aw, how sad," you murmured and held his face in your hands. "Poor you."

"Poor me is right. But all I had to do was think of that wet little pussy keeping me warm. Squeezin' me. That did the trick real quick. I don't think I've come that hard in a long while, darlin'. And it's been stuck in my mind ever since."

You had to admit that as much as his words spurred up those sparks and gave you a massive ego boost, it also scared the shit out of you.

"What if I can't live up to what you pictured?" you wondered.

"Honey," Joel began. "As long as you can spread those legs, let me in, and make those pretty sounds for me again, I promise you ain't disappointing anyone."

"I could think of multiple people who'd object to that..." you began to think to yourself. But before you could really finish it, Joel was taking your hand and dragging it south until you hit the denim covering his crotch. He rolled his hips a few times, allowing your palm to run up and down the full length of his cock. Fuck, he was hard. And big. Big enough that your brain scrambled, struggling to handle how intensely the want within you multiplied.

Joel chuckled as you put both hands to work, frantically undoing his jeans. "Jesus, sweetheart, you really don't know the meaning of the word patience, do you?"

"I do. I just know what I want," you replied. Sensing Joel's awe, you continued, "And what I want is for you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me on this couch. I want to feel you for days. I want you to show me everything you've got. Show me you're better than those college boys."

That tapped into something primal in him. Because soon he's rushing to pull his cock out. If his fingers had been filling, you could only imagine how the length would feel once it filled you to the brim.

Joel pulled the flimsy and soaked fabric of both your shorts and panties aside. Running a finger between the folds, he finished every caress with a languid circle of your aching clit. After a few swipes, he drew his hand back and eyed the glistening digit before bringing it to your mouth.

"Have a taste, tell me what it's like."

Opening your mouth, you took his finger graciously and ran your tongue along the underside teasingly. Hollowing your cheeks, you began to suck, taking it back and forth like you would his cock. Before his breathing could get too heavy, you pulled your lips off with a wet little smack and admired how the skin of his finger had already begun to prune.

"So?" Joel's voice broke on the single word.

You contemplated on how to best describe your arousal before settling on giving him a taunting glare and declaring, "I don't know, maybe you should have a taste too." Before Joel could question the statement, you grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and tugged him down to your lips, kissing him deep and slow and dragging your tongue along the seam of his lips. When you detached from him with a soft moan, a thin trail of spit kept your mouths connected.

"You best believe I'm getting a taste of that pussy before summer's over," he sputtered out.

"Only if you fuck me first," you promised dangerously.

With that motivation, Joel was quick to take his cock in hand and give himself a few pumps that already sounded wet with his own pre-come. Carefully and experimentally, he slid the underside of his cock between your folds and you swore to god you could feel the blood rushing through his veins. It was all driving you insane.

"I'll try to go slow," he said tenderly. Then, with the fat head of his cock pressed against your entrance, you were overwhelmed with anticipation.

It was an expectation that was satiated more and more as each inch of him sunk into you. Your breath kept getting caught in your throat and it took everything in you not to cry at just how full you felt. You panted, attempting to catch your breath after being engulfed by him.

You knew Joel was going through something similar when his eyes practically rolled into the back of his head. For a moment it made you wonder when the last time he felt a cunt was. In all the time you'd known him, he'd never mentioned anyone, never brought anyone around, never even hinted at having any sort of romantic or sexual life. But you're doubted that he was untrained or inexperienced with the control he exercised, keeping his movements gentle and steadying his breath with each rise and fall of his belly.

Even when you squeezed – just to see what would happen – Joel only winced and asked carefully, "You doin' alright, honey? Need me to stop?"

You were getting sick of this southern charm and gentlemanly manner. Both of you were way past the point of decency.

You meant to sound mean when you snapped, "For fucks's sake, Joel. I need you to fuck me. Now."

"Well, if you're gonna be such a brat about it..." he trailed off, returning your attitude.

He started to pull out, ever so slowly. Then, with his hands gripping your thighs tight, he slammed back in. The impact made you yelp in surprise.

"Is that how you want it, darlin'? You want me to fuck you hard?"

Head starting to fog, you nodded, added on a weak, "Please."

"Alright, since you asked so politely."

He does it again. And again. One after another, Joel delivers every thrust relentlessly. With each articulated stroke, he grunted and it prodded at something volatile inside you. Something that threatened to burst as he stretched and split you apart at the same time. You couldn't remember a time where you'd ever been touched that deep. And fuck, you were so terribly sensitive to it, your whimpers and gasps accompanying Joel's groans.

His movements were greedy, aiming to take as much as he possibly could and you were all too willing to give it to him; clenching eagerly around his cock and nails searching for purchase in the taut muscles of his back.

Like animals, you both scratched and clawed away at each other until there was nothing left but trembling, sweat slicked skin and the decade old couch threatening to give way beneath you both. Though there was a masterfulness in his motions, you could tell that was quickly fading as his thrusts weakened and he stuttered for breath.

Joel buried his head in the crook of your neck and hissed through gritted teeth, "I can't hold on for much longer, darlin'. You feel so fuckin'...fuck...so fuckin' good..."

"Give me your hand," you whined.

You took it, brought it between both your bodies, and held it over your clit. Joel quickly got the picture and divided his attention between your weeping hole and the sorely neglected nub above it. How he managed to uphold a modicum of gentleness with it, you had no clue. All you knew was that as soon as his fingertips began to brush those coveted circles over you, that was when the tears began to fall. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on the white hot pleasure that was burning right through you, visualizing the inferno growing and growing until it had no choice but to explode.

But your eyelids snapped open at Joel's biting tone, "You better look me in the eyes when you come. I need to see it."

Not having it in you to argue or protest, you tried to follow his simple direction. No matter how much you wanted to shut your eyes and somehow try to brace yourself for your incoming orgasm, you had to do as he said. Partially because you wanted him to be proud of you again, but also because you couldn't miss his expression either.

You were glad you withstood the urge because right as you started to come undone, you felt Joel's cock pulse. Then there was the telltale rush of warmth inside you as his seed filled you up. His hand slowing on your clit, you watched as his mouth hung open, letting out a deliciously ravenous groan as you milked him dry. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and the curve of his nose before he wiped them away lazily and collapsed on top of you.

Being in his forties, you weren't surprised that a single fuck could wipe him out so thoroughly. And you gave a breathless chuckle when he confirmed his exhaustion with a low, "Jesus, you wear me out, girl."

"Good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him and running a hand through his messy, damp hair.

You had no idea when your parents would be home. But you knew that Joel would have to be gone before then. Already you weren't looking forward to that parting. You couldn't bear the thought of his cock slipping out of you, leaving you empty again. And most of all you dreaded when you'd inevitably hear him say goodnight. Because you knew he would; he was polite like that, even after railing you into the family room couch.

For now he was yours. And there was nothing wrong with any of it, you told yourself.

#˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚#hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal smut #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut

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sketchy-rosewitch · 8 months

Text

Maybe There’s a God Above: Priest!Bo Sinclair x nun!reader

Warnings: Manipulation, PinV, fingering, eating out, Catholicism, sex between a priest and nun, whatever all of those blasphemy words are and stuff.

A/N: ooooo I liked doing this one!!!

Day 5 of Haunted Hoedown

Hoedown Masterlist

Previous: Malfunction: Captain Denninger x afab!gn!android!reader

Next: Moonlight Madness: Bo x Gn!werewolf!afab!reader x Vincent

“Are you almost done?”

You look up from the blanket you are knitting and stare at Sister Jane.

“For today yes, I should be done tomorrow though.” You explain. You had been working on this blanket for weeks to give to a homeless shelter a few miles into the city. Everyone else had already finished theirs but yours took you a bit longer as you were new at this. Normally you’d never be put on duty for this but after Sister Anne had retired you were bumped up a spot.

“Okay, just reminding you that Father Bo needs to speak with you. Then you need to wash up for dinner.” Sister Jane says before leaving the room. You nod your head and set down all of your stuff before making your way down the corridors and across the church to Father Bo’s office. Honestly you wonder what he could want from you. You’d wondered it all morning when he came in during breakfast asking.

Father Bo made you nervous, you didn’t really know why. Well, you acted like you didn’t know why. You knew and God knew why and it was because you fantasized about being with him, about him kissing you and treating you so well and it really wasn’t your fault. He was handsome. More than handsome!

Honestly you felt like God was testing you.

Father Bo sits at his desk writing when you come in meekly. The door was already open so you give the frame a small knock making him look up from his paper. He smiles and your knees almost buckle. Father Bo stands up and walks around his desk, leaning on the edge of it. His arms cross.

“Evenin’, I just wanted to check in on you Sister. You seem to have avoided confession for the last few weeks. I’m hoping you’re doin’ alright. Was also wonderin’ why that is.”

You frown and look down so full of shame. You avoided it because you wanted to avoid him. He couldn’t tell or judge a soul when it came to confessions. But telling the source about your feelings towards him made you feel even dirtier than having the feelings.

“Hey, there’s no shame. I’m just concerned is all.”

Father Bo’s voice is gentle, it lures you in like a siren lures in a sailor.

“Just haven’t been feelin’ myself Father. I thought I could just tell God about it this time.”

What level of Hell does someone get sent to for lying to a priest?

“Ah, okay. Well you’ve been dealin’ with it for a long time. So, why don’t you come confess tonight. I’m sure it’ll take some weight off your shoulders.”

You let out a breath and close your eyes. “..Okay. I will Father. Before bed.”

“Sounds good. Now why don’t we head to dinner.”

You turn around and Father Bo follows after you. You feel his hand on your shoulder as the two of you walk towards the dinning hall. Your chest hurts and you keep looking at his large hands. Then you watch as it disappears and goes to your backside when you enter the hall.

It’s almost silent, just small whispers and talking about the next Mass and charity events that are coming up.

You sit in your seat seeing as a plate was already set for you and watch as Father Bo goes into the kitchen to get his food. You look down and begin eating quickly, your chest hurting from how fast you’re swallowing you food. You sip on your water and feel as those all of your Sisters are staring at you. But when you look up, they aren’t.

Sister Jane nudges you lightly. “What did he need to talk to you about?” She whispers, you turn towards her and frown.

“I hadn’t been going to confession the last few weeks. He’s askin’ me to go tonight. Said it’ll help lift a weight off my shoulder.” You explain, she nods her head.

“He’s right, you should. I’m not gonna ask why you haven’t been goin’ but k think you should. You seem to be too lost in thought recently and I know it ain’t cause of God.”

You nod your head in agreement and she rubs your shoulder before getting up and grabbing her plate along with the other sisters’ plates in her row. You eat in absolute silence after that.

The halls are silent as you walk down them. Your mind is racing on how you’d even confront the situation.

You could confess everything but your crush on Father Bo. But what if he catches on? No he wouldn’t, he can’t pressure you to confess, can he?

The chapel is dark other than a few candles lit up near the alter and the confessional booth. Father Bo comes out from the door, he looks at you and smiles genuinely.

“Come in.”

Father Bo opens the door for you, you go in and sit in one of the chairs. The priest goes behind the curtain and sits, your hands come together in prayer. He holds a rosary.

“In the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit.”

You mimic the silhouette of Bo and do the sign of the cross.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He says, you nod your head, not knowing whether he can see you in the lamp’s light or not.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was uh…” You think for a second, how long had it been? “6 weeks ago.” You whisper. Oh this was bad, how did you even become a nun in the first place. You’re horrible. Horrible. Horrible.

“Sister?”

You look up. “Sorry, I’d like to ask for forgiveness for not going to confession, for-for staying up late, unable to sleep and for developing feelings for someone when I know I cannot marry.” You let out a shaky breath and lean into your folded hands. “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all of my sins.” A small sob escapes your throat.

“I ask you do three Hail Mary’s and that you come to my office tomorrow to help me with some things.” Bo says. You nod your head.

You whisper The Act of Contrition and afterwards Bo says the prayer of Absolution to you. You two make the sign of the cross and head out of the booth.

“12 pm tomorrow.”

You nod and sniffle. He gives you a half smile.

“It’s okay, you’ve been forgiven.”

Just like the day before, you knock lightly on the frame of the door to alert Bo.

“Afternoon, go ahead and shut the door.”

You nod and do as you’re told, stepping into the room and shutting the door quietly behind you.

“Bring that bench over here.” He points. You furrow your eyebrows but again, you listen. You drag the bench to the middle of the room wondering why he wants you to do this.

You stand up straight and Father Bo is directly behind you making you yelp when he speaks. “I’d like to ask you who these feelin’s you developed are for.”

His voice is raspy, your breath hitches and you close your eyes.

“I cannot say Father.”

“Oh but I think you can.”

You turn and look at him, your eyes reading fear and his eyes clearly eating that fear up. Being obedient you answer. “Y-you.”

He hums. “Good, for your penance I need you to go ahead and take off your panties for me.”

You open your mouth, trying to muster up the words to ask him if this is what God told him to do. But none come to mind.

You reach up your dress and pull them down, they’re slightly soaked and you frown. Father Bo takes them from you and pockets them.

“Lift your dress up and sit.”

You get on the bench and do just that. Father and takes his foot and kicks your legs apart, your hairy mound comes into view, he smirks and kneels. His tongue goes directly to your clit and you arch your back grabbing his hair.

“Father! We-we can’t!” You whine.

“It’s okay, nothing is going in you so it doesn’t count.”

Was that the rule?

Your thoughts scramble as he licks and sucks your clit. His hands keeping your thighs apart. Your thighs still shake and spasm as he finds your favorite spot.

You let out a small moan and listen to the wet noises coming from Father Bo making out with your cunt.

He groans and stops for a second, the bottom of his face is wet with you. “You taste divine.” He says, your face heats up and you look away. “No.” He sticks a thick digit in you and you gasp. “Look at me.”You look down and he’s smirking. “It’s okay because I haven’t stuck my cock in you. We just have to make sure you’re repenting correctly.”

Father Bo curls his fingers, you let out a high pitched moan and goes down again on you, sucking and kissing your clit aggressively.

You feel a cramp in you that you’ve never felt before and let out something between a gargle and whine making Bo work faster. Your thighs sweat and shake, then you fall over the edge. White flashes behind your eyes as you cum. High pitched squeals come from your throat and Bo works you through your orgasm. He pulls out his fingers and licks then clean.

“I need one more thing from you.”

You look at Father Bo hazily, he’s unbuckling his belt and unzipping his black pants.

His large hand gently pushes you back onto the bench. Every holy part of you wants to resist. Unfortunately the lust seems to take over and you allow him to slowly slide into you.

“It’s okay, cause we’re practically saints, at least.. you are.”

You nod and feel how he stretches your pussy out. He leans down and kisses your lips, they taste just like you.

“Father-“

He shushes you. You whine.

“Feel good.” You whisper, he kisses your cheek and slowly pulls out before thrusting back into you.

“That’s good, it’s supposed to. It’s how you know it’s working. This is your penance after all.”

His cock moves in and out of you making both of you groan and moan about how good it feels.

You grab his hand and move it to your breast, he takes no time and gropes it. You lean up and kiss Father Bo’s soft lips. He thrusts harder. “Have you said your-“ he groans “three Hail Mary’s yet?” He asks, grunting and licking your neck. You shake your head.

“Go ahead. Say it and you’ll be forgiven.”

“Hail Mary- Full of… Grace!” You buck up into him feeling the same knot forming in your stomach again. “The Lord is with thee- ah~. Blessed art thou among women and blessed it the fruit of thy Womb, JESUS!” Tears fall down your cheeks as he hits a special spot inside of you.

“Come on, not even done with the first one. Can’t cum until you say all of them.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

You whine and buck into him as he slows down, you know he’s about to cum himself.

“Hail Mary Full of Grace the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” You slur, your tongue feels like nothing in your mouth. Still you try and say it again one more time, feeling as Father Bo moves his hand between your legs and rubs for clit as he fucks into you.

“Hail Mary Full of Grace.. oh please.. the Lord is with thee blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Gonna cum, please gather let me cum!” You beg looking right into his beautiful blue eyes. He smiles.

“Just finish it for me.”

“Holy Mary Mother of God, mmgh… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen!”

He thrusts into you a few more times and you cum around his cock. Quickly he pulls out and cums on your mound. The cum laying on your hair.

He kisses you one more time before getting up and adjusting himself. You lay there looking at him. “My-“

“Keepin’ these.” He pats his pocket.

You nod and sit up, your dress falls over your cum soaked cunt and you look at Father Bo.

“I’ll tell you when you come back. Don’t think this is a one time thing.”

“Yes Father.”

You get up and he kisses your head, then makes sure you’re adjusted before you head out the door to do your daily duties.

#bo sinclair #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #brian van holt #bo sinclair x reader #hauntedhoedown

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